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THIS    EDITION, 

Ising  speciall}^  prepared  for  Subscription,   is  not 
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CASSELL  &   COMPANY,    Limited. 


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LIVING  LONDON 


ITS    WORK     AND     ITS     PLAY 

ITS     HUMOUR    AND     ITS     PATHOS 

ITS     SIGHTS     AND     ITS     SCENES 


EDITED    BY   .    .   . 

GEORGE    R.    SIMS 


VOL.   I— SECTION    11 


SPECIAL     EDITION,    WITH     FULL-PAGE    REMBRANDT     PLATES 


CASSELL  AND  COMPANY,  Limited 
London,    Paris,   New   York   &   Melbourne 
All  Rights   Reserved 


OCT  2  8 


t959 


LONDON    TYPES:     THE    PAVEMENT    ARTIST. 

(,Fiom  the  I'ainiing  by  \V.  H.  Wollcn,  R.l.) 
4 


k^''y^<^ 


LONDON    TYPES:    THE    FIREMAN. 

{From  the  Paintini;  by  A.  Pearse.) 
5 


V4^.WoWCV\, 


LONDON    TYPES:    THE    RECRUITING    SERGEANT   (DRAGOONS). 

(From  the  Painting  by  W.  B.  Wollcn,  R.I.) 

7 


CONTENTS. 


EVICTED    LONDON 

THE    CHURCH    IN    LONDON       .       . 

DANCING    LONDON 

SOMERSET    HOUSE 

ROUND  THE  AUCTION  ROOMS  . 

IN        HOLLOWAY       AND       BRIXTON 
PRISONS 

COSMOPOLITAN    LONDON    . 

IN    LONDON    THEATRE-LAND      . 

CAT    AND    DOG    LONDON  . 

THE    LONDON    STOCK    EXCHANGE. 

LONDON'S    SOCIAL    SETTLEMENTS  . 

BEHIND    THE    BLINDS     .... 

SUNDAY  MORNING  EAST  AND  WEST 

HIS    MAJESTY'S    CUSTOMS     . 

FOOTBALL    LONDON      .... 

TABLE    LAND    IN    LONDON. 

GARDENING    LONDON    .... 

A  CORONER'S  INQUEST  IN  LONDON 

ROUND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS  . 

AT    CHELSEA    HOSPITAL       . 

LONDON'S   HOMES  FOR   THE   HOME- 
LESS      


BY 

GEORGE    R.    SIMS 
REV.    A.    R.    BUCKLAND 
C.     O'CONOR    ECCLES 
CHARLES    OLIVER 


PAGE 

203 
210 
216 
223 


F.    M.    HOLMES 228 

MAJOR    ARTHUR    GRIFFITHS    .        .        .234 

COUNT    E.    ARMFELT 241 

GEORGE    R.    SIMS 248 

FRANCES    SIMPSON 254 

GODEFROI    DREW   INGALL,    F.I.S.  .        .  2G1 

HOWARD    ANGUS    KENNEDY,    .        .       .  2G7 

GEORGE    R.    SIMS 273 

A.    ST.    JOHN  ADCOCK       .        .        ,        ,279 

E.    S.    VALENTINE 280 

HENRY    LEACH 292 

J.    C.    WOOLLAN 297 

WALTER    P.     WRIGHT 304 

A.     BRAXTON    HICKS    and    C.     DUNCAN 

LUCAS 310 


ARTHUR    RUTLAND 
DESMOND     YOUNG 

T.    W.    WILKINSON 


LONDON'S         DRESSMAKERS        AND 
MILLINERS 


ELIZABETH    L.     B.ANKS 


318 
326 

331 

338 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS    . 
WIG    AND    GOWN    IN    LONDON 
LOAFING    LONDON        .        .        •        • 
REPRESENTATIVE   LONDON  STREETS 
CARING   FOR    LONDON'S    CHILDREN 
KERBSTONE    LONDON  ... 


BY 

RICHARD  KEARTON,   F.Z.S. 
HENRY  LEACH    . 
ARTHUR  MORRISON 
EDWIN  FUGH 
D.    L.    WOOLMER. 
GEORGE  R.    SIMS 


PAGE 

344 
351 
357 
3G3 
371 
378 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PACE 

EviCTKD  London  : — 

A  Slum  Scene 203 

The  Old  Room  in  Slumland 205 

The  New  Room  in  a  Model  Dwelling      ....  205 

"  Lot  I." 206 

Notice  to  Quit 207 

On  Guard 208 

Evicted 208 

Ripe  for  Eviction 209 

The  Church  in  London — 

A  Conlirmation  Service .  210 

Garden  Party  at  Lambeth  Palace 211 

Consecrating  a  Bishop 213 

■    An   Open-Ail    Service    in   Yiddish  (^St.  Mary's.  White- 
chapel)        .       1 215 

Dancing  London  : — 
At  the  Caledonian  Ball      .         .         .        .         .         .         .216 

Between  the  Dances 217 

Dancing  to  a  Street  Organ 218 

On  a  Bank  Holiday  :    Hampstead  Heath  .         .         .         .  219 
Children  s      Fancy     Drtss      Ball      at      the      Mansion 

House 220 

At  an  East-End  Working  Girls'  Club      .        .        .        .222 

SOi'viERSET  House:  — 

Probate  Registry  :  Public  Search  Room  ....  223 

A  Door-Keeper 223 

A  Cheque-Stamping  Room 224 

Stamping  Room 225 

Where  Documents  are  Stamped 226 

An  Income  Tax  Complaint 227 

Round  the  London  Auction  Rooms  :— 

Christie's 228 

Sothebys' 229 

Stevens' 230 

Aldridge's  and  the  Rostrum 231 

Phillips' 232 

A  Sale  of  Unclaimed  Railway  Luggage   ....  233 

In  Holloway  and  Brixton  Prisons  :— 

Wardresses'  Recreation  Room 234 

A  Corridor 235 

Preparing  his  Defence 235 

Receipt  for  Prisoners 230 

Holloway  Exercis'ng  Yard  as  it  Was       ....  237 

Sack-Making 238 

In  the  Kitchen  ...                 238 

Infirmary •  ^39 

Meeting  Discharged   Prisoners   at  the  Gates  at  Hollo- 
way      ^40 

COSMOPOLITAN  London  : — 

Berwick  Street  on  a  Sunday  Morning       .  ■        -241 

Absinthe  Drinkers 242 


Cosmopolitan  London  (continued) : — 

An  Arab  Cafi 243 

Street  Scene 244 

In  Little  Crown  Court 244 

An  8d.  7ai/«rf'//o/«  (with  Facsimile  of  Menu)        .        .  244 

Sunday  Morning  Shopping 244 

In  the  Artistes'  Club 246 

In  Leicester  Square 247 

In  London  Thkatre-Land  : — 

At  a  Stage  Door 248 

A  Pantomime  Rehearsal 249 

An  Agent's  Office 250 

Rehearsing  a  Play  in  Ordinary  Dress       ....  251 

A  Dressing  Room 252 

At  the  Wig-Maker's 252 

An  Open-Air  Play 253 

Cat  and  Dog  London  : — 

At  the  Dog  Show  (Royal  Botanic  Gardens)     .        .        .  254 

Begging  for  Charity 254 

Rat  Seller  at  the  Dog  Market 255 

Dog  Sellers  and  Buyers  in  the  East-End  ....  256 

Claiming  a  Lost  Dog  at  the  Battersea  Home   .        .        .  257 

The  F^'iremen'.s  Dog 257 

Selecting  a  Pet  at  a  Cats'  Home 258 

The  Dogs'  Cemetery  (Hyde  Park) 258 

Judging  Cats  at  the  Royal  Botanic  Gardens  Show  .        .  259 

"  Meat,  Meat !  " 260 

The  London  Stock  Exchange : — 

The  After-Hours  Markets  in  the  Streets  .        .        .        .  26t 

Entrance- Waiter  in  Box 261 

"  Bonneting"  a  Stranger 262 

Throgmorton  Street  Entrance  on  Settling  Day         .        .  263 

"  Marking  "  the  Prices 263 

"  Hammering  "  a  Member 264 

"Mabey's" 206 

London's  Social  Settlements  :— 

Browning  Hall  :  Entertaining  the  Cripples      .        .  .     267 

Bermondsey  Settlement :  A  May-Day  Festival        .  .     268 

Canning  Town  Women's  Settlement :  Physical  Drill  .     269 

Toynbee  Hall :  A  Concert  in  the  Quadrangle  .        .  .271 

Mansfield  House  :  "  The  Poor  Man's  Lawyer  "       .  .     272 

Behind  the  Blinds  : — 

Between  the  Courses 273 

"Good-Night!" 274 

Watching  the  Shadows 275 

"  Many  Happy  Returns  of  the  Day  "        ....  276 

When  Guests  Have  Left 277 

A  Night  Reverie 277 

"  Begone  I  " 278 


VI 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Sunday  Morning  East  and  West  :  — 

Four-in-Hand 

Awheel 

Kird  Fair  (Sclater  Street,  Bethnal  Green) 

Off  to  Chingford 

Out  for  the  Day 

Sunday  Morning  in  Hyde  Pari;  (Church  Parade) 
Sunday  Morning  in  Middlesex  Street,  Whitechapel 
Sund.iy  Excursionists  Passing  Down  Piccadilly 


280 
281 
282 
283 
283 
284 
284 
2«5 


288 
289 
289 


His  Majesty's  Customs  : — 

Searching  a  Chinese  Seaman's  Chest        ....  286 

Caught  in  the  Act .287 

Luggage    Awaiting   Examination   by   Customs   Officers 

(Charing  Cross  Station) 

Officers  and  Searchers  (Tunnel  Pier)         .... 

Beadle 

Aliens  and  Others  at  the    Docks:   After   Luggage  Ex- 
amination               290 

The  Long  Room 291 

Football  London  :  — 

In  Battersea  Park 292 

Schoolboys  at  Play 292 

Taking  the  Field  (Blackheath  Club) 293 

A  Rugby  "Sprint  "(Blackheath  Club)      .         .        .         .293 

On  the  Roof  of  St.  Paul's  C-ilhedral  Choir  School  .  .  294 
A  "  Cup-Tie "  Final  (Crystal  Palace)  .  .  .  -295 
A  Corner  of  the  Crowd  (Crystal  Palace)          .        .         .295 

Half-Time  Refreshments 296 

A  Death  Card 20 

Table  Land  in  London  :— 

Pearce  and  Plenty  (Farringdon  Street) :  Mid-Day    .        .  297 
Alexandra  Trust  Restaurant  (City  Road)  :  Breakfast       .  298 
Aerated  Bread  Company's  Depot  (Ludgate  Hill)  :  Mid- 
Day    298 

Slaters'  Restaurant  (Piccadilly)  :  Afternoon      .         .         .  299 

Table d'Halent  the  Trocadero 300 

Kitchen  Scene  at  the  Carlton 302 

Gatti's  (Adelaide  Gallery)  :  Mid-Day       .         .        .         .302 

A  Corner  at  Prince's 3^3 

Gardemlsg  London  : — 

In  a  >[ews 304 

In  Portman  Square 3*^5 

A  Garden  in  Walworth 305 

Firemen's  Garden  near  Blackfriars  Bridge       .         .         .  306 

On  a  Police  Court  Roof 306 

At  the  Tower  of  London 306 

Royal   Horticultural   Society's  Show  of  Colonial   Fruit, 

etc.  (Vincent  Square) 306 

Afternoon  Promenade  F'^teatthe  Royal  Botanic  Society's 

Gardens,  Regent's  Park 308 

In  Hyde  Park  (near  Park  Lane) 309 

Music  and  Flowers  (Victoria  Embankment  Gardens)        .  309 

A  Coroner's  Inquest  in  London  : — 

Outside  a  Coroner's  Court 310 

Police  Ambulance  Entering  Mortuary      .         .        ,         .311 

Witness  Summons 311 

Identification  Form 312 

Jurors  Proceeding  to  View  a  Body 312 

A  Coroner  Handing  Burial  Order  to  his  Officer       .         .  313 

A  Coroner's  Inquest 315 

Coroner's  Order  for  Burial 316 

Removing  a  Prisoner 317 

Round  London's  Big  Markets:— 

Billingsgate  :  Landing  Fish 318 

Porter  with  Eecis 318 


Round  London's  Big  Markets  (continued) 
Porter  with  Cod 

A  Corner  of  Leadcnhall  Market 
Covent  Garden  :  Shelling  Peas 
Scenes  at  Pedlars'  F'air 
Fruit  Auctions  at  Covent  Garden 
Showing  the  Donkey's  Paces  (Cattl 
Near  Smithfield  Meat  Market  . 

Meat  Van 

Bag  Sellers        .... 


Market) 


318 
319 
320 
321 

322 
323 
324 
325 
325 


At  Chelsea  Hospital  : — 

Pensioners  and  "  Blackjacks" 326 

Gardening 327 

The  Chapel 329 

A  Garden  Scene 329 

The  Great  Hall 329 

Memorials  in  the  Piazza 330 

London's  Home  for  the  Homeless  : — 

House  of  Charity  :  Tablet  on  Wall 331 

House  of  Charity  :  Entrance 331 

Ham  Yard  Hospice  :  The  Soup  Kitchen  ....  332 

Medland  Hall :  Waiting  to  Enter 333 

Field  Lane  Refuge  :  Supplying  Cocoa  after  the   Ragged 

Church  Service 333 

Chopping    Wood   at   the   Mornina  Post    Embankment 

Home .         .         . 334 

Medland  Hall  :  Inside 334 

A  "  Halfpenny  "  Barber 335 

Providence    Row    Night    Refuge :    Male   and    Female 

Applicants 336 

Admission  Tickets, 337 

London's  Dressmakers  and  Milliners  :— 

Judging  the  Effect 338 

Trying  On  a  Hat 339 

Finishing  Touches 341 

Models  Before  a  Customer 342 

In  Readiness  for  Derby  Day 343 

The  Zoological  Gardens  : — 

The  Parrots'  Airing  Place 344 

King  Vulture 344 

Sweeping  Out  the  Wild  Goats'  Yard        ....  345 

At  the  Bear  Pit :  Reaching  for  a  Bun      ....  345 

Ready  for  a  Meal 346 

Chimpanzee  and  Keeper 346 

At  Twopence  a  Time 347 

Hungry  Pelicans 348 

Muzzling  a  Vicious  Alligator 348 

Feeding  the  Sea-Lion 349 

Loading  Up  an  Animals'  Van 350 

A  Siesta    . 350 


Wig  and  Gown  in  London  : — 
Students  at  Dinner     .... 
Invitation  to  a  "  Grand  Night " 
A  Temple  Flower  Show    . 
A  Temple  Doorway  (2,  Pump  Court) 
Gossip  in  the  Common  Room   , 
A  "  Grand  Night  "  Toast,  Gray's  Inn 
In  Fountain  Court     .... 


Loafing  London  : — 
The  Theatrical  Loafer 
The  Club  Loafer 
The  Cab-Stand  Loafer 
The  Market  Loafer. 
The  Denunciatory  Loafer. 
The  Railway-Station  Loafer 


3St 
351 
352 
352 
353 
355 
356 


357 
358 
359 
360 
361 
3<Ja 


LIST    OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  vii 

PAG  I!  rxCH 

Representative  London  Streets  ?—  Caring  for  London's  Children  (conlinued)  :— 

Oxford  Street .  363  National  Waifs'    Association   (Stepney)  :  In  the   lilack- 

Piccadilly  .         .        .         .         , 3(M  smiths'  Shop        ........    375 

New  Cut,  Lambeth 364  Alexandra  Orphanage  (Hornsey  Rise) :  Going  to  Bed   .    376 

Cornhill  (from  front  of  the  Royal  Exchange)            .         .  366  Stockwell  Orphanage  :  The  Laundry        ....    377 

Cheapside  (from  the  Mansion  House)       ....  367 

High  Street,  Kensington •JbS 

The  Strand 369  KERBSTONE  LONDON :- 

Holloway  Road 370  A  Quiet  Row:  Cheapside  ;  Groundsel ;  Clockwork  Toys; 

Trying   his  Skill  ;   "  Paper  !  "  ;  Refreshing    Roses  ; 

Caring  for  London's  Children  :—  Kruit ;    Blind   Musician  ;    Batterer  ;   Old    Clothes, 

Marie  Hilton  Creche :  The  Cots 371  Purses,    Brooches,    etc.;     Umbrellas;     Bagpipes; 

Marie  Hilton  Creche  :  Meal  Time 371  Walnuts;    Studs,    etc.;    Books;    Camphor;    Old 

In  the  Foundling  Hospital  Grounds 373  Boots  ;  Needles  ;   Dolls  ;  Bananas  ;  Comic  Songs  ; 

A  Ragged  School  Union  Dinner  (Camberwell)        .        .  374  Flowers ;  Egg  Pipes         378,  379,  380,  381,  382,  383,  384 


The  Illmtratiotn  are  from  Drawings  by  Abbey  Altson,  R.B.A.,  S.  Begg,  H.  M.  Brock,  Gordon  Browne,  R.I.,  R.B.A., 
Arthur  H.  Buckland,  Sydney  Cowell,  J.  Barnard  Davis,  Lucien  Davis,  R.L,  H.  H.  Flere,  Arthur 
Garratt,  Miss  E.  Stuart  Hardy,  Hal  Hurst,  R.L,  R.B.A.,  E.  Lander,  Wal.  Paget,  F.  Pegram,  H.  Pikfakd, 
Ernest  Prater,  W.  Rainey,  R.L,  Edward  Read,  C.  J.  Staniland,  R.L,  L.  Campbell  Taylor,  H.  E. 
Tidmarsii,  F.  H.  Townsend,  Enoch  Ward,  and  T.  Walter  Wilson,  R.L  ;  and  from  Photographs,  nearly  all 
of  which  were  specially  taken  for  this  work,  by  MESSRS.  Cassell  and  Co.\ipany,  Limited. 


LIST    OF    REMBRANDT    PLATES. 


St.  Paul's  Cathedral Frontispiece 

Somerset  House To  face  p.  224 

The  Customs  House  ,        .        , >,         286 

Chelsea  Hospital      .        .       ,        .        •        .        .        .  •>         3^6 


R.   205 


20.1 


A   SLUM   SCENE. 


EVICTED     LONDON. 

By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 


THE  problem  of  the  Housing  of  the 
Working  Classes  in  London  lives  on 
through  the  centuries.  It  occupied  the 
attention  of  our  grandfathers,  and  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly probable  that  it  will  be  a  burning 
question  when  our  grandsons  have  attained 
a  green  old  age.  The  problem  arises  in  the 
first  instance  from  overcrowding.  Overcrowd- 
ing is  the  result  of  the  multiplication  of 
manufactories  and  workshops  in  the  larger 
centres.  The  wealth  of  a  city,  and  the  op- 
portunities it  offers  of  picking  up  gold  and 
silver — either  legitimately  by  labour  or  ille- 
gitimately by  crime— attract  not  only  the 
population  of  the  rural  districts,  but  also  the 
inhabitants  of  less-favoured  towns  and  less- 
favoured  countries.  Generally  speaking,  the 
pre  ;ent  condition  of  affairs  is,  however,  mainly 
due  to  two  things— the  increased  birth  rate 
and  the  migration  of  the  rural  population. 

In  the  train  of  overcrowding  have  come 
evils  which  threaten  the  health  and  welfare 
not  only  of  the  overcrowded,  but  of  the  city 


itself  Hence,  philanthropists  and  reformers 
have  busied  themselves  with  the  Housing 
Problem.  In  obedience  to  popular  outcry, 
vast  areas  of  working  class  dwellings  have  been 
condemned  as  insanitary,  and  levelled  to  the 
ground  in  order  that  superior  accommodation 
might  be  raised  upon  the  vacant  space. 

This  clearing  necessitates  the  eviction 
of  the  inhabitants.  All  over  London  the 
tenants  of  mean  streets  and  slums  and  courts 
and  alleys  are  being  evicted.  The  slum 
dwellers  are  daily  receiving  notice  to  quit 
their  homes  and   find  shelter  elsewhere. 

To  stud\-  the  subject  at  first-hand,  let  us 
take  a  walk  through  a  block  of  condemned 
propert)-,  the  tenants  of  which  have  long 
()versta)-ed  their  notice  to  quit.  Let  us  knock 
boldly  at  the  closed  doors,  and  push  back 
those  that  are  ajar.  The  inhabitants  will 
open  them  if  we  speak  sympatheticall)-.  They 
will  imagine  we  are  officials  connected  with 
the  "  pulling  down,"  and  they  will  talk  either 
to  us  or  at  us. 


204 


LIVING    LONDON. 


At  the  first  house  is  a  decent-looking 
woman,  who  says  that  her  liusband  is  at  work 
and  her  children  are  at  school.  Half  the 
houses  of  the  court  are  empty,  and  the 
housebreakers  ha\e  commenced  on  some  of 
them.  Why  does  she  linger  still  ?  "  Well, 
sir,  you  wouldn't  believe  the  miles  as  I've 
been.  I  can't  get  a  decent  place,  not  as  good 
as  this,  through  having  the  five  children  )-ou 
see.  But  I  7Jiusi  get  a  place  to-morrow ; 
they're  going  to  take  the  windows  out." 

In  the  next  house  is  a  man.  He  is  at 
work.  He  is  busy  with  a  hammer  and  a 
piece  of  leather.  What  he  is  making  he 
doesn't  give  us  time  to  see.  He  jumps  up 
and  comes  to  the  door.  He  is  fierce  and 
defiant,  and  prepared  to  orate  after  the 
manner  which  may  be  described  as  the  early 
Hyde  Park.  But  we  pacify  him  with  tobacco, 
and  he  explains  that  he  can't  afford  the  time 
to  go  tramping  about.  His  missis  is  in  the 
hospital,  else  s/ie'd  go.  He's  got  to  earn  the 
money  for  the  children.  Knowing  something 
of  the  ways  of  Slumland,  we  point  out  to  him 
that  he  has  been  living  rent  free  for  many 
weeks,  and  that  at  least  is  some  compensa- 
tion for  disturbance.  The  saved  rent  should 
have  allowed  him  leisure  for  house  hunting. 

That  is  a  point  that  must  not  be  forgotten 
in  considering  these  evictions.  After  the 
period  of  notice  has  expired  many  of  the 
tenants  deliberately  stay  on  because  there  is 
no  rent  to  pay.  They  know  that  frequently 
after  the  hou.ses  have  been  cleared  they  are 
left  standing.  There  are  condemned  houses 
which  night  after  night  are  converted  into 
free  hotels  by  tramps  and  outcasts.  Some- 
times a  burly  ruffian  will  take  temporary 
po.ssession  of  an  empty  house,  from  which  the 
tenants  have  been  evicted,  and  let  the  rooms 
out  for  a  copper  or  so.  One  rascal  did  a 
great  business  until  the  authorities  discovered 
him.  He  not  only  filled  the  rooms  with 
wayfarers,  but  charged  a  penny  a  head  for 
the  privilege  of  .sleeping  on  the  stairs. 

At  the  next  house — "  Lot  i  "  in  tne  illus- 
tration on  p.  206 — there  lives  an  old  woman 
who  does  mangling.  We  knock  at  the  door 
and  shout  at  the  window,  but  she  refuses  to 
take  any  notice.  She  is  a  besieged  resident. 
She  thinks  if  she  comes  out  she  won't  get  in 
again.  So  fijr  her  food  supply  she  lowers 
a    small    basket    attached    to   a   string.      A 


neighbour  puts  into  it  the  purchases  made 
on  her  behalf,  and  thus  she  thinks  she  is 
defying  the  authorities.  Poor  old  woman! 
She  was  in  that  house  many  years,  but 
she  left  it  at  last.  When  I  went  down  the 
court  a  few  weeks  ago  not  a  brick  of  her 
Southwark  Chateau  Chabrol  remained. 

When  a  slum  has  been  levelled  to  the 
ground  a  huge  block  of  working  class 
dwellings  generally  rises  on  its  site.  These 
buildings  are  wanted.  Many  of  them  are 
excellent.  But  up  to  the  present  they 
have  hardly  succeeded  in  solving  the  great 
problem,  because  the  evicted  or  displaced 
tenants,  practically  left  without  any  superior 
accommodation,  are  driven  into  worse. 

An  ounce  of  practical  experience  is  worth  a 
ton  of  argument.  Let  us  see  for  ourselves 
how  an  eviction  works.  Here  is  a  grand  new 
block  -of  working  class  dwellings  in  South- 
wark. On  the  site  where  the  building  stands 
there  stood  a  short  while  ago  a  network  of 
courts  and  alleys  inhabitated  mainly  by  poor 
people  earning  a  precarious  livelihood.  After 
notice  had  been  served  upon  them  some 
began  at  once  to  look  about  for  other 
accommodation.  But  the  larger  number, 
because  it  is  the  nature  of  the  slum  dwellers 
to  live  only  for  to-day  and  to  trust  to  luck  for 
to-morrow,  did  nothing.  At  last  came  the 
pinch.  The  authorities  served  the  last  notice, 
"  Get  out,  or  your  walls  will  crumble  about 
you."  The  tenant  who  after  that  still  re- 
mained obstinate  soon  realised  that  the  end 
had  come.  The  roof,  the  doors,  and  the 
windows  were  removed  while  she  (it  is  gener- 
ally a  woman)  still  remained  crouching  in  a 
corner  of  the  miserable  room  which  contained 
the  chair,  the  table,  the  bed,  the  frying  pan, 
and  the  tub  that  were  her  "  furniture." 

Eventually  the  position  became  dangerous. 
When  bricks  and  plaster  began  to  fall 
in  showers  about  her,  and  the  point  of  the 
pickaxe  came  through  the  wall  against  which 
she  was  leaning,  then  at  last  she  scrambled  for 
her  belongings  and  went  out  into  the  street, 
where  a  little  crowd  of  onlookers  and  fellow 
sufferers  welcomed  her  sympathetically. 

Sometimes  a  whole  family,  the  head  having 
failed  or  neglected  during  the  period  of  grace 
to  find  accommodation  elsewhere,  is  turned 
into  the  street.  I  have  .seen  families  sitting 
homeless  on  their  goods,   which   were  piled 


THE   OLD  ROOM    IN   SLUM  LAND. 


THE   NEW   ROOM    IN   A   MODEL   DWELLING. 


2o6 


LIVING    LONDON. 


high  in  the  court.  You  can  see  them 
jourself  in  the  photograph  reproduced  on 
page  208.  Guarding  their  household  gods 
sat  women  with  infants  in  their  arms.  They 
sat  on,  hopeless  and  despairing,  and  saw 
their  homes  demolished  before  their  eyes. 
Now  and  again  the  heap  of  bedding  and 
furniture  was  diminished.  A  man  would 
return  and  tell  his  wife  he  had  found  a  place. 
They  would  gather  up  their  goods  and  go. 
But  all  were  not  so  fortunate.  I  ha\e  seen  a 
woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  and  two 
children  crouching  b}'  her  side  sitting  out  long 
after  nightfall  by  her  flung -out  furniture, 
because  the  husband  could  find  no  accom- 
modation  at  the  rent  he  could  afford. 

Sometimes  a  boy  is  left  in  charge  of  the 
piled-up  property  while  his  parents  go  off 
in  different  directions  to  hunt  for  shelter. 
Frequently  the  parents  wander  a  considerable 
•distance,  and  it  is  long  after  midnight  before 
they  return  to  the  young  .sentinel. 

If  you  dive  below  the  surface  you  will 
understand  more  readily  how  terrible  is  this 
problem  of  "  Evicted  London."  Granting  that 
the  raising  of  sanitary  dwellings  on  the  site  of 
insanitary  is  an  admirable  work,  fully  admit- 
ting that  the  London  County  Council's  idea  of 
breaking  up  and  scattering  colonies  of 
"  undesirables  "  makes  for  the  public  good,  we 
are  still  faced  by  the  difficulty — What  is  to 
become  of  the  people  who  are  unfit  (by  reason 
of  their  ways   or  their  families)  for  the   new 


"lot  I." 


buildings  ?  What  will  happen  to  the  areas 
in  which  the  "  undesirables  "  (i.e.  the  criminal 
and  vicious)  scatter  themselves  ? 

The  bulk  of  the  people  evicted  are  the  poor, 
earning  small  and  precarious  livelihoods, 
hawkers  and  "  general  dealers  " — a  description 
that  covers  a  multitude  of  trades.  The  bulk 
of  the  people  housed  in  the  new  buildings  are 
artisans  earning  a  regular  and  decent  wage. 
The  idea  in  improving  insanitary  dwellings  oft 
the  face  of  London  is,  of  course,  that  the 
dishoused  shall  be  rehoused.  But  many  of 
the  dishoused  fail  to  find  accommodation  in 
the  new  buildings.  One  or  two  are  admitted 
at  first,  but  as  the  block  becomes  filled 
they  are  weeded  out  on  some  excuse  or  other. 
Slum  dwellers  are  not  wanted  in  nice  clean 
buildings.  The  superior  artisan  who  will 
respect  his  property  and  pay  regularly  is  the 
tenant  the  Board  of  Directors  and  the  private 
philanthropist  alike  desire. 

And,  again,  there  is  the  question  of  the 
children.  The  poorest  people  seem  to  have 
the  most.  And  the  children  are  a  bar  not 
only  to  admission  to  the  new  dwellings,  where 
only  so  many  people  are  allowed  to  sleep  in  a 
room,  but  even  to  the  common  lodging-houses. 
A  man  and  his  wife  and  five  or.  six  children 
are  not  wanted  anywhere,  not  even  in  the 
lowest  of  the  doss-houses.  So  when  the  day 
of  eviction  comes  mother  and  the  children 
must  turn  out  and  wait  "  somewhere "  while 
father  tramps  the  city  paved  with  gold  in 
search  of  a  spot  in  which  to 
lay  his  head.  If  father  is  in 
work,  then  mother  must  do 
the  tramping. 

I  will  take  a  real  case. 
Tom  Brown  calls  himself  a 
general  dealer.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  and  his  wife  make 
"  ornaments  for  your  fire 
stove,"  artificial  flowers,  and 
rosettes  to  hawk  in  the  streets 
for  special  occasions,  such  as 
Boat  Race  day,  St.  Patrick's 
day,  Lord  Mayor's  day,  and 
the  days  of  National  holiday 
or  jubilation.  He  and  his 
wife  earn  between  them  when 
times  are  good  £1.  When 
times  are  bad  they  earn  a  few 
shillings.    I  have  known  Tom 


EVICTED    LONDON. 


207 


of  th( 


¥ 


in  the   Parish  of 
O 
the  County  of  s^a^jM^^ 


for  the  last  six  years,  and  during  that  period 
he  has  been  evicted  four  times.  The  family 
were  evicted  for  property  to  be  pulled 
down  in  the  Borough ;  they  found  two 
rooms  in  Bermondsey.  There  after  eight 
months  they  were  again  evicted  for  improve- 
ments, and  went  to  St.  George's.  They  were 
turned  out  of  St.  George's  and  went  to 
Lambeth.  They  have  now  been  evicted 
again,  and  have  succeeded,  after  endless 
tramping,  in  finding  two  rooms  in  Bermond.sey 
near  their  old 
quarters, but  their 
rent  is  six  and 
si.x  instead  of  five 
and  six. 

Take  another 
case,  that  of 
George  Jones,  a 
carman  in  regular 
employ,  lately 
evicted  to  make 
room  for  arti- 
sans' dwellings. 
The  family  con- 
sists of  Jones,  his 
wife,  and  seven 
children.  When 
they  were  turned 
out  the  father 
lost  several  days' 
work  trying  to 
find  a  place 
where  the  nine 
of  them  could  be 
accommodated  at 
a  rental  he  could 
afford.  For  three 
nights  and  three 

days  the  family  were  homeless,  and  at  last 
had  to  apply  to  the  workhouse,  where  the 
wife  and  children  were  received  as  "  paying 
guests."  The  workhouse  authorities  even- 
tually succeeded  in  finding  rooms  for  the 
family. 

It  occasionally  happens,  such  is  the  gene- 
rosity of  the  poor  to  the  poor,  that  the 
younger  and  weaker  children  when  evictions 
take  place  are  accommodated  for  a  night  or 
two  by  the  poor  neighbours  who  are  still 
left  in  peaceable  possession  of  a  roof  Quite 
recently  in  a  house  of  four  rooms  in  Foxley 
Street,  Bermondsey,  there   lived  a  man,  his 


NOTICE    TO    QUIT. 


3  \n(si  (Sitr  Jon  gotirt  to  Quit,  and  yield  up  to 

me  on  or  hffnri-     ^^ifjj-ju^,         ihp        /P  ' day  of 

■  ■  ~ 19.^,  the  Quiet  and  Peaceable  Possession 

TwA  JUhlju^ situate  at   No 


^•^ 


In  failure  of  your  compliance  herewith,  legal  measures 
will  be  adopteti  to  compel  the  same  by  application  at  the 
riKTRirT        Xta. COURT. 

Dated  this Lj; day  of m  the  year 


of  our  Lord  One  Thousand  Nine  Hundred. 
Yours.  &e.. 


To  Mr.. 


The  Tenant  in  Possession . 
Witness 

From  LANDLORD  to  TEXANT.  


wife,  and  ten  "children,"  the  latter  ranging 
from  four  to  twenty-four  years  in  age.  Yet, 
when  a  ca.se  of  eviction  occurred  near  them, 
they  took  in  the  three  children  of  a  poor 
woman  who  was  unable  to  find  shelter.  The 
same  hospitality  I  have  known  extended  by 
a  family  of  eight  occupying  two  room.s. 

A  large  number  of  the  evicted  poor  drift 
into  the  various  common  lodging  -  houses 
when  there  are  no  children,  or  children  who- 
can  be  disposed  of  temporarily  among  friends. 

If  there  are 
children  who^ 
cannot  be  housed 
temporarily  the 
situation  is 
desperate.  Here 
is  a  ca.se  in  point. 
A  decent  hard- 
working man  and 
his  wife  had  lived 
in  a  small  tene- 
ment  house 
which  was 
eventually  de- 
molished under 
an  improvement 
scheme.  They 
tried  in  vain  to 
get  another  small 
hou.se.  At  last 
the  father, 
mother,and  three 
children  drifted 
into  an  utterly 
d  isrep  u  table 
common  lodging- 
house.  Here  the 
Rescue  Society's 
officer  discovered  the  children,  and  the  law 
took  them  from  the  parents  and  sent  them 
to  an  industrial  school  to  be  kept  at  the 
e.xpense  of  the  ratepayers. 

We  point  with  pride  to  the  new  and 
improved  dwellings  raised  by  the  enterprise 
of  governing  bodies,  public  companies,  and 
private  philanthropists  on  the  sites  where 
recently  stood  foul  and  insanitary  dwellings, 
in  which  the  poor  huddled  together  without 
light,  without  ventilation,  and  without  a  water 
supply ;  and  we  say  that  here  at  least  is  a 
step  in  the  right  direction.  No  one  will  deny 
it ;   but   we   shall   never  get   further   than   a 


U) 


c^Ov-vt^ 


2o8 


LIVING    LONDON. 


■step,  we  shall  never  come  within  measurable 
distance  of  the  goal  if  we  shut  our  eyes 
to  the  terrible  difficulties  which  beset  the 
present  s)-stem  of  dishousing  a  poor  and 
struggling  class  in  order  to  make  room  for 
a  superior  class  in  constant  employment. 

The  people  who  can  go  into 
model  buildings,  who  can  afford 
the  number  of  rooms  demanded 
by  the  regulations  for  a  family 
of  a  certain  number,  are  only 
slightly  represented  in  the  in- 
sanitary areas  in  which  demolition 
compels  wholesale  eviction.  The 
dwellers  in  the  new  buildings 
come  as  a  rule  from  other  dis- 
tricts and  from  a  better  class  of 
property.  The  evicted,  unless 
they  are  fortunate,  find  shelter  in 
already  overcrowded  and  insani- 
tary areas,  because  it  is  only  in 
this  class  of  property    tliey    will 


London.  The  struggle  for  life  of  the  evicted, 
always  keen,  becomes  fiercer  than  ever.  At 
each  fresh  rush  for  accommodation  rents  are 
advanced,  so  that  it  frequently  happens  that 
a  family  housed  in  one  insanitary  area  for 
five  and  sixpence  a  week  for  two  rooms   are 


I.    ON    GUARD. 


be  tolerated.  Thus  every  area  cleared  for 
superior  dwellings,  for  street  improvements, 
or  for  railway  schemes  only  adds  to  the 
further  congestion  of  areas  in  which  the 
poor  are  already  massed  together  under  the 
worst  conditions. 

And  increased  overcrowding  is  not  the 
only  evil  that  follows  the  wholesale  evictions 
which  are  now  almost  weekly  occurrences  in 


eviction 
compelled  to 
pay  si.x  and 
sixpence  a 
week  for  worse 
rooms  in  an- 
other insani- 
tary area.  And 
so  fearful  are 
they  of  having 
to  go  through 
the  terrible 
search  for 
shelter  again 
that  they  never 
dream  of 
making  the 
slightest  com- 
plaint,however 
grossly  the  landlord  may  neglect  his  duty. 

I  once  interviewed  a  woman  who  with  her 
four  children  was  living  in  a  wretched  garret 
in  a  court  in  the  Borough.  It  was  a  wet  day, 
and  the  rain  was  coming  through  the  broken 
roof  and  falling  on  a  child  who  was  lying  on 
a  bed  in  the  corner.  "  You  should  complain 
to  the  landlord,"  I  said  ;  "  he  is  bound  at 
least  to  give  you   a  rainproof  roof  for  your 


n.    KVICTKD. 


EVICTED    LONDON. 


209 


money."  "  Complain  ! "  exclaimed  the  woman 
in  a  tone  of  horror;  "yes,  I  should  like  to 
see  myself  doing  it.  I  did  complain  to  him 
once,  when  we  was  better  off  and  lived  in  a 
room  downstairs.  There  was  a  brick  loose 
in  the  wall,  and  the  rain  had  soaked  throu<^h, 
and  the  plaster  had  given  way  till  there  \\as 
a  hole  as  you  could  put  your  two  fists  in — 
so  I  went  to  him,  and  I  said  he  ought  to 
repair  it." 

"  And  of  course  he  did  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Tie  did — he  come  and  nailed  the  lid 
of  a  soap  box  across  the  hole,  and  he  put 
the  rent  of  the  room  up  sixpence  a  week 
for  the  improvement." 

A  good  deal  of  the  neglect  and  abuse  of 
property  with  which  the  poor  of  London  are 
credited  is  due  to  this  kind  of  conduct  on 
the  part  of  the  slum  landlord.  The  hapless 
tenants  are  glad  to  get  accommodation  any- 
where, and  they  cannot  afford  to  be  particular 
as  to  the  condition  of  the  room  or  rooms. 
If  they  complain  they  will  be  told  that  they 
can  clear  out,  there  are  plenty  of  people 
waiting  to  come  in.  So  the  tenants,  unable 
to  move  the  landlord's  heart,  take  their 
revenge  on  his  property.     Boards  that  have 


been  used  to  patch  walls  are  torn  off  and 
used  as  firewood,  stair  railings — if  there  are 
any  left — share  the  same  fate.  Presently 
there  is  very  little  left  of  the  house  but  the 
walls,  some  crumbling  plaster,  and  a  window- 
frame  or  two  patched  with  brown  paper. 
The  doors  suffer  less  than  any  other  portion 
of  the  property.  The  reason  is  that  the 
slum-dweller  desires  occasional  privacy.  A 
door  is  useful,  not  only  when  you  want  to 
shut  yourself  in,  but  when  you  want  to  shut 
your  neighbours  out — and  .some  neighbours 
in  the  slums  are  given  to  making  mistakes 
and  walking  into,  or  falling  into,  other  rooms 
than  those  for  which  they  have  paid  the 
week's  rent. 

On  all  the  phases  of  Evicted  London  I 
have  not  dwelt.  I  have  but  slightly  sketched 
a  few  of  the  difficulties  that  the  wholesale 
dishousing  of  the  poor  brings  in  its  train. 
All  the  schemes  of  rehousing,  with  perhaps 
two  exceptions — and  those  I  believe  have 
not  been  very  successful — aim  at  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest.  But  the  unfittest  do 
not  die.  They  are  not  destroyed.  Like 
Jo  in  "Bleak  House"  they  are  only  being 
eternally  "  moved  on." 


RIPE   FOR   EVICTION. 


27 


2IO 


A    COXFIKMATION    SERVICE. 


THE    CHIRCH     IN     LONDON. 

By  the  REV.  A.  R.  BUCKLAND 


ENTER  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Trinity  Sunday  with  the  crowd 
that  pours  in  at  each  open  door.  It  is 
not  quite  the  usual  throng.  Here,  of  course, 
are  regular  attendants,  to  whom  the  Cathedral 
is  almost  as  their  parish  church.  Mere  are 
good  Londoners  escorting  country  friends  to 
the  most  popular  of  English  cathedrals. 
Here  are  conscientious  Americans,  bent  on 
mi.ssing  nothing.  Here  is  a  group  of  young 
men  from  a  City  warehouse  ;  and  hard  by  a 
trio  of  West  African  natives,  immaculately 
clothed.  A  young  couple  absorbed  in  each 
other  block  the  way  of  some  self-reliant 
ladies  who  know  where  they  want  to  sit  and 
how  to  get  there.  All  these  are  familiar  ;  but 
to-day  there  is  another  element  in  the  crowd. 
It  is  composed  of  the  friends  of  .some  forty 
or  fifty  young  men  who  are  to  be  ordained 
deacon  or  priest. 

You  have  nf)  difficulty  in  finding  this 
element.  When  the  procession  of  clergy  and 
choristers  enters  there  is  with  it  the  long  line 
of  ordination  candidates.  As  they  move  to 
their  places  you  can  from  a  point  of  vantage 


single  out  the  people  whose  eyes  have  found 
the  one  form  for  which,  in  their  minds,  this 
service  is  being  held. 

Perhaps  the  other  visitors  miss  a  good  deal 
for  which  they  came.  There  is  less  music 
than  usual  ;  the  sermon  has  a  distinct 
character  ;  and  they  cannot  all  either  see  or 
hear  much  that  goes  on  in  the  dim  distance 
of  the  choir.  Yet  perhaps  they  catch  some- 
thing of  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  and  follow 
\\\Xh  sympathy  those  who  are  there  set  apart 
as  new  recruits  for  the  ranks  of  the  clergy. 

Where  is  the  visible  head  of  the  army  these 
recruits  have  joined  ?  Ecclesiastically,  at  all 
events  for  the  province  of  Canterbury,  we  can 
find  him  at  Lambeth.  The  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  freed  from  the  incumbrance  of  a 
country  house  at  Addington,  now  spends 
much  of  his  time  in  London,  and  is  one  of 
the  most  familiar  figures  in  its  Church  life. 
To  Lambeth  come  representatives  of  the 
Anglican  communion  from  all  parts  of  the 
earth.  There  the  Bishop  of  the  American 
Church  meets  his  English  peers  :  there  the 
Colonial  prelate  seeks  counsel ;  thither  go  the 


THE   CHURCH    IN    LONDON. 


211 


men  who,  on  the  frontiers  of  the  Empire,  are 
founding  new  sees  and  sub-dividing  old  ones. 
The  Lollards'  Tower,  looking  grimly  over  the 
Thames,  houses  no  longer  prisoners  but  the 
Archbishop's  guests.  In  the  library,  where 
Archbishop  Benson  sat  to  try  the  Bishop 
of  Lincoln,  his  successors  have  presided  over 
social  meetings.  On  the  lawns  upon  occa- 
sion garden  party  guests  share  the  Arch- 
bishop's hospitality,  just  as  the  children  of 
Lambeth  do  in  the  field  Dr.  Benson  handed 
over  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  public. 

If  we  want  to  see  the  deliberative  machinery 
of  the  Church  at  ^\•ork  we  must  cross  the 
river  to  Westminster,  and  in  the  Church 
House  look  on  at  the  sessions  of  Convocation. 

In  the  Upper  House  sits  the  Archbishop 
with  his  bishops  around 
him,  robed.  It  is  a  small 
gathering,  with  very  few 
spectators  ;  but  there  are 
long  debates,  intermitted 
with  occasional  lapses  into 
private  sessions,  when  the 
onlooker  is  turned  out 
to  await  their  Lordships' 
pleasure.  You  can  beguile 
the  tedium  of  waiting  by 
a  glance  at  another  official 
body,  the  Lower  House 
of  Convocation  —  an  as- 
sembly of  suffragan 
bishops,  deans,  canons  and 
other  clergy,  mostly  aged, 
but  often  very  contentious, 
and  debating  their 
opinions  with  a  warmth 
which  would  not  disgrace 
a  less  austere  -  looking 
body.  By  way  of  supple- 
ment there  is  the  Southern 
House  of  Laymen,  a 
merely  consultative  as- 
sembly, with  many  men  of 
light  and  leading,  giving 
serious  attention  to  sub- 
jects its  opinion  upon 
which  nobody  is  obliged 
to  recognise. 

But  these  assemblies 
exercise  little  influence  on 
the  activities  of  the 
Church.      If  we   wish  to 


understand  these,  we  must  look  at  its  men. 
The  bishop  of  a  dioce.se  is  an  autocrat.  You 
may  find  London's  autocrat  at  Fulham 
Palace,  or  on  one  day  a  week  at  London 
House  in  St.  James's  Square.  The  Bishop 
of  Rochester  dwells  in  a  plain  hou.se  near 
Kennington  Oval,  and  the  Bi.shop  of  Kensing- 
ton in  the  heart  of  the  City.  When,  amid.st 
the  dim  lights  and  overwhelming  a.s.socia- 
tions  of  Westminster  Abbey  or  St.  Paul's, 
a  bishop  is  consecrated  for  a  home  diocese, 
he  enters  upon  a  career  of  real  toil  and 
incessant  anxiety. 

The  prelate's  working  day  is  long  enough 
to  call  for  repressive  legislation.  His  corre- 
spondence is  heavy,  and  its  variety  is  hardly 
compensated  for  by  the  extraordinary  success 


.   B»ltr  SI..    IV. 

GARDEN  PARTY  AT  LAMBETH  PALACE. 


212 


LIVING    LONDON. 


of  bores  in  imposing  upon  a  bishop's  good- 
nature. His  inteniewers  are  scarcely  less 
exacting,  and,  although  many  of  them  furnish 
food  for  the  humorous  reminiscence  in  which 
ever}'  bishop  can  upon  occasion  indulge, 
they  all  take  up  time.  The  prelate  who  has 
suffered  many  things  of  them  must  spend  the 
rest  of  the  day  hurrying  hither  and  thither. 
The  Bishop  of  London's  engagements  carry 
him  from  Fulham  to  Poplar,  from  Bethnal 
Green  to  Belgravia,  from  Hackney  to  Harrow. 
He  must  preacli  here  and  speak  there ; 
consecrate  a  new  church  one  day  and  open 
new  schools  the  ne.xt  ;  hurry  from  the  meet- 
ing of  a  diocesan  society  to  snatch  a  hasty 
dinner  and  rush  to  an  evening  confirmation  : 
reach  home,  \\orn  out,  late  in  the  evening  to 
find  another  pile  of  letters  all  ready  to  supply 
new  worries.  Yet  the  Bishop  of  London  who 
welcomes  the  clergy  and  laity  to  a  garden 
party  at  Fulhain  is  always  a  host  whose 
cheerful  alacrity  in  making  everybody  happy 
would  become  the  most  leisured  of  his  laity. 

From  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  to  the 
newly-ordained  curate  is  a  far  cry.  Between 
the  two  there  are  in  the  London  diocese  two 
deans,  three  archdeacons,  residentiary  canons 
at  Westminster  and  at  St.  Paul's,  a  bevy 
of  prebendaries  (whose  stalls  have  no  fodder 
in  them),  a  band  of  rural  deans,  and  a  small 
army  of  incumbents.  Rochester  and  St. 
Albans  have  their  cathedral  centres  outside 
London.  Under  one  of  the  incumbents  the 
deacon  ordained  on  the  morning  of  Trinity 
Sunday  may  in  the  evening  be  reading  the 
service. 

He  may  go  East.  There  was  a  time  when 
clerical  recruits  did  not  flow  quite  naturally  to 
this  end  of  London  diocese ;  but  Bishop 
Walsham  How  changed  all  that,  and  now  it 
is  perhaps  rather  easier  to  find  a  curate  for  a 
hard  parish  in  the  East  than  for  an  easy 
parish  in  the  West.  Nobody  who  has  ever 
tasted  the  romance  of  clerical  life  in  the  most 
distinctive  parishes  of  East  London  will  feel 
surprise  at  the  change. 

P^or  the  clergy  of  the  great  inner  parishes 
of  the  East,  where  overcrowding  is  worst, 
poverty  at  its  sharpest,  and  crime  most 
abundant,  the  services  of  the  Church  are  but 
a  small  part  of  their  work.  They  are  every- 
body's friend — the  visitors  and  helpers  of  the 
sick,    the    providers    of     the    hospital     and 


convalescent  home  letters,  the  friends  of  the 
wife  and  family  whose  head  is  "  away "  in 
prison,  the  capitalist  of  the  "  stone-broke " 
coster  who  wants  to  set  up  again,  the  employ- 
ment-agent for  the  repentant  first  offender  to 
whom  nobody  wants  to  give  work,  the  prompt 
rescuer  of  the  foolish  lad,  and  sometimes  the 
even  more  foolish  girl,  who  has  drifted  away 
from  home.  The  clergy  of  such  parishes  may 
have  the  oddest  collection  of  friends  ever 
known  to  men  of  their  cloth.  They  may — 
cxpcrto  ci'cde — be  seen  walking  up  the  street 
in  friendly  converse  with  a  man  who  has  been 
in  almost  every  convict  establishment  in  the 
country  ;  or  trying  to  coax  into  a  mission 
service  the  eminent  pugilist  who.se  well- 
behaved  son  makes  an  excellent  choir-boy  ; 
or  entertaining  as  a  guest  the  ex-convict 
come  to  thank  the  man  who  helped  him 
back  to  an  honest  life. 

He  conducts  the  ministrations  of  the 
Church  under  strange  circumstances.  He  is 
allowed  with  a  few  helpers  to  hold  services  in 
a  good  many  lodging-house  kitchens,  where 
the  sound  of  his  hymn  mingles  with  the 
frizzling  of  lodgers'  suppers  at  the  huge  fire, 
and  his  prayer  is  punctuated  with  the  critical 
comments  of  the  few  who,  despite  energetic 
remonstrance  from  some  of  their  neighbours, 
will  not  listen  in  silence.  Perhaps  before  he 
goes  he  will  have  to  defend  his  cause  against 
the  vigorous  onslaught  of  some  critic,  whilst 
the  other  lodgers  "see  fair."  His  sick-visiting 
takes  him  in  perfect  safety  where  no  other 
person  save  the  city  missionary  and  the 
police  could  go  at  night  with  impunity.  His 
performance  of  the  marriage  ceremony  is 
often  a  trial  to  his  self-possession  from  the 
amazing  maltreatment  by  the  contracting 
parties  of  familiar  words.  He  pursues  his 
friends  to  the  beds  of  the  infirmary  and  the 
hospital  ;  and  others  who  are  not  his  friends 
have  no  scruple  about  knocking  at  his  door 
at  midnight,  prepared  with  tales  of  woe  which 
make  up  in  picturesque  detail  what  may  be 
lacking  in  solid  fact. 

In  some  of  those  parishes  the  parson  has  as 
many  poor  Jews  as  would  people  a  good- 
sized  town  in  Palestine.  There  are  streets  in 
which  English  is  rarely  heard  ;  where  the 
pauper  aliens  steadily  increase  the  difficulty  of 
the  clergy  in  fighting  overcrowding. 

You   may   see  something  of  that   element 


CONSECRATING    A    BISHOP. 


214 


LIVING   LONDON. 


listening,  with  at  least  respectful  curiosity,  to 
addresses  in  their  own  patois  delivered  from 
the  outside  pulpits  of  Whitechapel  and 
Spitalfields  parish  churches.  At  Whitechapel 
such  services  are  now  familiar  to  most  of  the 
passers-by,  and  even  the  Gentiles  have 
learned  that  the  notice,  printed  in  Yiddish 
and  exhibited  near  the  pulpit,  means  "  Ser- 
vice at  3  and  3.30." 

But  the  East-End  is  not  all  of  a  piece  with 
Whitechapel  or  Spitalfields.  Amidst  its 
artisan  population  the  judicious  parson  is 
very  much  at  home.  If  he  does  not  com- 
mand the  resources  of  Toynbee  Hall  or  of 
Oxford  House,  he  may  have  a  working-men's 
club,  where  he  smokes  a  pipe  with  great 
contentment  amidst  his  neighbours.  If,  as  is 
often  the  case,  he  has  been  something  of  an 
athlete,  he  is  great  amongst  the  growing  lads 
whom  he  will  lead  to  victory  in  cricket 
matches  at  Victoria  Park,  where  the  games 
are  so  close  that  it  is  hard  to  be  sure  of  your 
own  ball,  and  where  the  cover-point  of  one 
team  is  a  little  in  the  way  of  another's 
square-leg.  Is  not  one  so  expert  with  the 
gloves  as  to  have  earned  a  reputation  amidst 
a  population  which  produces  a  steady  crop 
of  professional  boxers?  Are  they  not  all 
at  their  best  on  the  days  of  parish  excursions 
and  school  treats,  when  they  control  an  army 
of  wild  young  Cockneys  amidst  green  fields 
with  a  tactical  skill  which  a  Napoleon  might 
envy  ?  They  have  their  failures  ?  Of  course  ; 
all  professions  have.  But  he  who  knows 
best  the  hardness  of  their  lives  will  not  be 
the  first  to  cast  a  stone  at  even  the  weakest 
of  the  flock. 

The  other  end  of  London  is  another  world. 
The  passage  from  East  to  West  takes  us 
through  the  City.  The  hard  labour  of  the 
East  merges  suddenly  into  the  repose  of  the 
City  incumbent.  Yet  the  City  church  is  not 
a  useless  cumberer  of  the  ground.  That  is 
a  modern  development  which  opens  some 
of  them  as  resting-places  for  early  toilers, 
landed  by  their  trains  in  the  City  before 
their  places  of  business  are  open.  But  mid- 
day services  are  no  innovation.  A  popular 
preacher  at  Bow  Church  or  at  St.  Bride's, 
Fleet  Street,  will  bring  in  a  crowd  of  men 
who  are  giving  up  half  an  hour  snatched 
from  their  lunch  time. 

Congregations  VB.ry,  of  course,  in  West  and 


West  Central  London.  Sight-seers  flock  to 
the  Abbe}-,  to  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster,  or 
nearer  the  City  to  the  Temple  Church  and  the 
Foundling  Chapel.  Wealth  and  fashion  are 
to  be  found  in  plenty  at  the  Chapel  Royal, 
St.  James's,  with  its  quaintly-dressed  choir- 
boys, at  St.  Peter's,  Eaton  Square,  at  St. 
Michael's,  Chester  Square,  or  at  Christ 
Church,  Lancaster  Gate.  For  a  "  brainy  " 
congregation  one  may  go  to  St.  Peter's,  Vere 
Street,  where  doctors  sit  thickly  all  around 
you.  If  elaborate  ritual  wins  crowds  to  St. 
Cuthbert's,  South  Kensington,  an  austere 
orthodo.xy  is  equally  crowded  at  St.  Paul's, 
Onslow  Gardens,  or  St.  Paul's,  Portman 
Square. 

They  are  not  idle  or  self-centred,  these 
West-End  congregations.  Several  have  at 
times  given  more  than  ^1,000  on  Hospital 
Sunday.  To  many  of  them  no  good  cause 
appeals  in  vain.  One  has  a  fund  all  its  own 
for  the  help  of  the  poorer  clergy.  Several  are 
linked  on  to  needy  parishes  in  other  parts  of 
London,  sending  them  funds  and  workers. 

There  are  other  aspects  of  the  Church's  life 
in  London  which  no  observer  can  miss.  The 
great  organisations  of  the  Church  have  their 
headquarters  there.  At  the  council  boards 
of  the  Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the 
Gospel  or  the  Church  Missionary  Society  you 
may  see  men  who  have  ruled  provinces,  and 
people  whose  names  are  great  in  the  Citj', 
ne.xt  to  the  man  who.se  only  work  is  philan- 
thropy and  the  clergyman  whose  weekly 
holiday  is  cheerfully  spent  at  committees. 
As  you  pass  in  or  out  of  their  headquarters 
at  Delahay  Street  or  Salisbury  Square,  you 
may  meet  the  Bishop  of  a  vast  Indian  diocese, 
an  industrial  missionary  from  Uganda,  an 
archdeacon  from  the  Arctic  shores  of  Hudson's 
Bay,  or  a  black  clergyman  from  West  Africa: 
all  of  them  witnesses  to  the  Imperial  spirit  in 
which  their  Church  pushes  her  pioneers  into 
every  quarter  of  the  globe. 

In  May,  Exeter  Hall  and  the  Great  Hall 
of  the  Church  House  overflow  with  the  rank 
and  file  who  keep  these  organisations  going. 
There  on  their  part  a  Prime  Minister  has 
pleaded  for  foreign  missions,  e.x-satraps  from 
India  have  tendered  their  experiences,  and 
great  travellers  have  borne  their  testimony, 
whilst  men  and  women  who  have  looked 
death  in  the  eye  under  a  Mtesa  of  Uganda,  or 


THE   CHURCH    IN    LONDON. 


215 


have  escaped  from  a  Chinese  massacre  like  that 
of  Ku-cheng,  have  simply  told  their  stories. 

These  are  but  samples  of  the  almost  count- 
less organisations,  worked  from  London,  by 
which  the  Church  finds  outlet  for  the  energy 
of  its  people. 

It  is  a  strangely  complex  life,  with  faults, 


of  course,  and  deficiencies,  of  course ;  but 
a  life  very  much  in  earnest,  and  no  more  to 
be  overlooked  by  the  student  of  London  than 
the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  can  be  by  the  man 
who  on  a  fair  day  surveys  inner  London 
from  the  northern  or  .southern  heights 
around  her. 


MT 


^mm^-W 


■S 


AN   OPEN-AU«    SERVICE    IN    YIDDISH    (ST.    MAKv's,    WHITECHAPHl.). 


2l6 


y 

Hpy  w '  -  wif 

PRii^^ 

AT  THE   CALEDONIAN    BALL. 


DANCING    LONDON. 

By  C.  O'CONOR  ECCLES. 


WHEN  gaslights  twinkle  like  stars,  and 
arc  lamps  shine  out  like  moons,  Danc- 
ing London  bestirs  itself.  Dancing 
London  I  What  a  vision  the  words  call  up  of 
life,  of  movement,  of  riotous  hilarity.  Danc- 
ing London,  of  course,  is  young ;  is  largely, 
though  not  exclusively,  female  ;  and  is  of  all 
classes,  from  the  fashionable  debutante  revolv- 
ing to  the  strains  of  the  Blue  Hungarian 
Band  to  the  coster  girl  footing  it  merrily  on 
the  pavement  to  the  mechanical  beat  of  a 
piano-organ.  Men  in  general  share  in  the 
amusement  with  less  enthusiasm  —  under 
protest,  as  it  were,  and  as  a  concession  to 
the  wishes  of  their  womenkind — though 
amongst  them  devotees  of  the  dance  are 
to  be  found. 

The  young  man  in  Society  of  to-day  grew 
up  disliking,  or  at  best  tolerating,  this  kind  of 
exertion.  He  succeeded  a  generation  that 
had  danced  not  wisely  but  too  well,  or  rather 
too  much,  and  that  by  a  natural  revulsion  of 
feeling  came  to  hold  dancing  in  aversion. 
His  father,  and  even  his  elder  brothers, 
had  accepted  invitations  to  three  balls  a 
night  for  many  seasons,  and  finally  arrived 


at  the  conclusion  that  dancing  was  vanity. 
When  at  length  the  youngster  in  his  turn 
appeared  at  parties,  he  copied  the  famous 
Tenth,  who  "  don't  dance."  With  his  advent 
in  the  ball-room  the  vogue  of  the  skirt 
dance  grew.  Fair  maidens,  more  constant  to 
tradition,  or  more  ambitious  of  terpsichorean 
distinction,  and  confident  in  their  powers  to 
trip  lightly,  for  want  of  cavaliers  fell  back  on 
Oriental  methods,  and  amidst  a  whirl  of 
draperies,  a  foam  of  unexpected  frills,  twirled 
and  attitudinised  for  the  benefit  of  a  circle  of 
admirers  who  watched  them  gyrate  with  the 
languid  satisfaction  natural  to  those  who  see 
others  successfully  undertake  labours  too 
exhausting  for  themselves. 

A  few  years  ago  hostesses  were  in  despair 
Dancing  a  deux  almost  ceased  as  a  form  of 
amusement  for  sheer  lack  of  the  harmless 
necessary  partner.  It  is  whispered  that  when 
dismay  was  at  its  height  the  hired  guest 
became  a  regular  institution,  not  merely  in 
the  suburban  circles  painted  by  Mr.  Anstey, 
but  at  the  more  exclusive  private  balls. 
Certain  firms  made  a  speciality  of  supplying 
discreet  young   men   of  good  manners   and 


DANCING    LONDON. 


217 


address,  irreproachably  attired,  and  warranted 
conversational,  to  eke  out  the  number  of 
dancers  required.  Ambitious  youths,  of  better 
family  than  fortune,  faced  bewildering  possi- 
bilities as  the  paid  guests  of  Lady  Vere  de 
Vere.  A  whisper  of  this  soon  got  abroad. 
Chaperons  of  rank  looked  askance  at  their 
daughters'  would-bc  partners,  however  pre- 
sentable, if  these  were  not  personal  acquaint- 
ances, and  dancing  languished  more  than 
ever.  The  waltz  and  the  cotillon  were  the 
only  dances  patronised  by  men,  and  these  in 
strict  moderation,  though  millionaire  hostesses, 
desirous  of  social  honours,  discarding  the 
good  taste  that  rules  in  French  Society, 
provided  beautiful  jewels  and  costly  baubles 
as  cotillon  favours,  instead  of  the  pretty,  value- 
less trifles  that  serve  across  the  Channel. 
The  cotillon  has  thus  by  degrees  become  as 
e-xpensive  to  organise  as  it  is  embarrassing  to 
take  part  in,  for  not  every  guest  likes  to  carry 
off  a  gold  bangle  or  a  silver  cigarette  case 
from  the  house  of  a  comparative  stranger. 
Now,  however,  that  a  Sovereign  who  loves 
and  has  always  loved  the  dance  has  succeeded 
to  the  throne,  Society  men  are  beginning  to 
throw  off  their  apathy,  and  show  renewed  in- 
terest in  a  form  of  amusement  that  for  several 
years  it  has  been  "  good  form  "  to  despise. 

Of  course,  even  at  the  worst, 
dancing  never  for  a  day  ceased 
throughout  the  land.      For  the 
young  to  love  rhythmic  move- 
ment   is    natural,    and    fashion 
will    never     gain     a     complete 
victory   over    nature.      Though 
Society    gossips    deplored    the 
lack  of  young  dancing  men  at 
Court    balls,    there    were    ener- 
getic   dancers    in    other   circles. 
Court  balls,  indeed,  are  seldom 
famous    for    liveliness,     though 
they      are     a     dazzling      sight, 
but  the  energetic  Society 
woman     with     a     pretty 
daughter  eager  for  amuse- 
ment    has     many    fields 
open  to  her. 

Take  the  typical  May- 
fair  ball,  when  during  the  season 
in  every  street  awnings  are  out, 
and  strips  of  crimson  carpet  are 
laid  across  the  pavement,  acting 
28 


as  magnets  to  all  the  idlers  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, who  form  up  in  line  to  .see  the  ladies 
in  brilliant  evening  dress  pass  from  their 
carriage  to  spacious  halls  filled  with  exotics 
and  dazzling  with  electric  lights.  Through 
the  open  windows  snatches  of  mekxly  float 
on  the  night  air,  announcing  to  all  that 
the  Duchess  of  B.'s  or  the  Countess  of  C.'s 
dance  is  in  progress.  Above,  the  shadows 
of  the  dancers  pass  and  repass.  Through 
rows  of  waiting  footmen  the  guests  file  in, 
lay  aside  their  wraps,  adjust  their  draperies 
with  the  aid  of  the  maids  in  attendance, 
and  mount  the  stairs,  garlanded  with  roses 
and  cooled  by  blocks  of  ice,  to  greet  their 
hostess. 

One  by  one  partners  come  forward,  and  the 
latest  arrivals  are  drawn  into  the  magic  circle, 
set  in  motion  by  the  beat  of  some  favourite 
waltz.  In  the  conservatories,  discreetly  lit, 
where  fountains  plash  and  tinkle,  embedded 
in  deep  moss,  in  corridors  with  convenient 
screens  and  angles,  on  tented  palm-filled 
balconies,  couples  are  resting  or  "  sitting  out." 
Sheltered  nooks  and  pretty  boudoirs  see 
many  a  marriage  "  arranged  "  that  within  a 
few  days  figures  in  the  fashionable  intelligence 
of  the  Morning  Post.  Tired  chaperons  find 
consolation  for  their  fatigue  in  watching  their 


^^m^m 


BETWEEN   THE   DANCES. 


2l8 


LIVING    LONDON. 


daughters'  triumphs,  while  the  supper  room, 
softly  illumined,  and  gorgeous  with  silver,  rare 
china,  and  flowers,  offers  every  delicacy  to 
tempt  their  appetite  and  beguile  their  hours 
of  waiting.  Chaperonage,  it  may  be  said,  has 
become  much  less  onerous  of  late  years  than 
it  used  to  be.  Even  at  public  balls  the  patient 
duenna  is  frequently  dispensed  with  \\hen 
girls  have  brothers  able  and  willing  to  accom- 
pany them. 

Tho.se  who  seek  more  variety  than  is 
offered  by  fashionable  private  balls,  who  find 
a  certain  monotony  in  the  programme,  vary- 
ing only  in  degree  of  luxury  and  elegance, 
will  find  an  agreeable  change  at  some  of  the 
exclusive  subscription  balls,  so  popular  with 
Dancing  London.  What  an  admirable  and 
novel  picture,  for  e.vample,  is  afforded  by  the 
annual  Caledonian  Ball  at  the  Whitehall 
Rooms,  where  all  the  guests,  including  royalty, 
appear  in  correct  Highland  costume,  the  men 
with  kilt,  sporran,  and  plaid,  brooch  and 
skian,  the  ladies  with  the  tartan  of  their  clan 
worn  crosswi.se  over  their  light  ball  gowns. 
There  the  Highland  reel  and  schottische  are 
danced  with  vigour  and  enthusiasm,  to  an 
accompaniment  of  whoops  and  snapping 
fingers,  while  a  feature  of  the  evening  is  the 
procession  of  some  fifty  boys  and  girls  from 
the  Royal  Caledonian  A.sylum,  who  at  a 
given  signal  march  round  the  room,  preceded 


by  their  pipers  and  headed  by  the  Duke  of 
Atholl. 

A  foreign  element,  likewise  full  of  interest 
and  novelty,  enters  into  the  Austro-Hungarian 
Ball,  at  which  the  Austro-Hungarian  Ambas- 
sador and  his  wife  preside,  and  the  Czardas  is 
danced  to  the  wild  gips\'  music  that  belongs 
to  it.  The  Czardas,  to  the  onlooker,  seems  to 
partake  of  the  nature  of  a  jig,  a  reel,  and  a 
waltz,  with  certain  features  peculiar  to  itself 
It  grows  faster  and  faster  in  time  to  the 
zither  and  the  violins  that  the  dark-skinned 
musicians  play  with  such  fire  and  energy, 
until  at  last  the  dancers  drop  out  from  sheer 
exhaustion.  Almost  as  unfamiliar  as  the 
Czardas  to  the  average  British  ball-goer  is 
the  historic  Irish  jig,  which  is  danced  to  per- 
fection at  the  Cinderella  dances  of  the  Irish 
Literary  Society,  at  Westminster  Town  Hall, 
to  the  music  of  the  Irish  pipes. 

The  Connradh  na  Gaedhilge,  Lunnduin, 
or  Gaelic  League  of  London,  is  a  society  that 
is  doing  much  to  foster  ancient  national 
dances.  It  holds  meetings  for  practice  every 
Monday  evening,  when  jigs,  three-part  and 
four-part  reels,  "  heel  and  toe,"  "  cover  the 
buckle,"  and  other  complicated  steps  are 
taught  to  novices  or  practised  by  experts 
before  an  admiring  crowd  of  onlookers.  The 
League  was  founded  to  encourage  the  de- 
velopment of  Irish  music,  the  use  of  the  Irish. 


DANCING    LONDON. 


219 


language,  and  the  revival  of  Irish  dances.     It 
has  now  a  large  and  increasing  membershiix 

Very  similar  in  their  aims  and  objects  are 
the  Highland  Gatherings  at  Stamford  Bridge 
on  the  first  Monday  in  August.  Full  High- 
land costume  is  worn,  and  a  feature  of  the 
programme  is  the  dancing  of  all  the  tj-pical 
Scottish  dances  by  professionals  only,  prizes 
being  awarded  to  the  most  expert.  Music  is 
afforded  by  the  bagpipes.  The  same  com- 
petitions and  the  same  competitors  are  seen 
at  the  Highland  Gatherings  in  Scotland. 

Dancing  London  offers  no  prettier  sight  than 
the  Children's  Fancy  Dress  Ball  at  the  Mansion 
House,  held  each  January.  An  artist  would 
rejoice  in  the  grouping  and  colouring,  as  the 
little  folk,  full  of  interest  and  excitement, 
walk  up  under  the  eyes  of  their  proud  parents 
to  be  presented  each  in  turn  to  the  Lord 
Mayor,  Lady  Mayoress,  and  Worshipful 
Aldermen  and  Sheriffs,  an  imposing  body  in 
their  robes  of  fur  and  scarlet  cloth,  and  chains 
of  office.  The  small  Robin  Hoods,  Maid 
Marians,  Bo  Peeps,  Prince  Charmings,  and 
other  representatives  of  nursery  heroes  and 
heroines,  are  delightful,  and  the  smaller  the 
more  delightful.  Some  are  so  tiny  they  can 
scarcely  toddle,  and  bow  in  bewildered  fashion 
to  the  wrong  people,  or,  growing  frightened, 
turn  their  backs  on  all  the  civic  functionaries 
so  terrible  to  childish  eyes,  in  a  wild  search 
for  the  shelter  of  mother's  arms  or  the  pro- 
tection of  mother's  skirts.  The  age  limit  is 
not  strictly  enforced,  so  that  these  may  be 
followed  by  young  ladies  of  sixteen  or  there- 
abouts, looking  quite  "  grown  up "  and  self- 
possessed.  There  is 
_  dancing  in  the  Kg}p- 
tian  Hall,  but  it  is  not 
the  sole  amusement 
provided.  Punch  and 
Judy,  the  cinemato- 
graph, and  other 
delights,  ancient  and 
modern,  keep  the  little 
ones  interested. 

Dancing,  as  already 
indicated,  is  by  no 
means  confined  to  one 
class,  or  any  degree  of 
wealth.  Indeed,  it  is 
generally  found  that 
the  less  this  enjoyment 


costs  the  more  heart-whoie  and  satisfying 
it  is.  Quite  as  much  pleasure  can  be 
purcha.sed  by  a  modest  expenditure  as  by 
the  most  extravagant  outlay.  If  we  desire  to 
sec  dancing  less  hampered  by  financial  con- 
siderations than  that  hitherto  noted,  let  us 
take  a  bird's  eye  view  of  Holborn  Town 
Hall  any  e\ening,  during  tJie  winter  months, 
when  the  popular  Cinderella  dances  are  in 
progress.  Despite  a  good  floor  and  good 
music  the  price  of  admission  is  low.  The 
entertainment  of  the  season  is  the  fancy 
dress  ball,  to  which  men  are  expected  to 
come  in  cycling,  boating,  or  other  costume 
associated  with  some  athletic  .sport,  while  the 
girls  wear  any  pretty,  light  dresses  at  their 
disposal.  Conventional  evening  garb  alone 
is  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

Better  known  are  the  Covent  Garden 
F"ancy  Dress  Balls  which  were  established 
by  the  late  Sir  Augustus  Harris  on  the 
lines  of  the  famous  balls  at  the  Paris  Opera. 
Here  multi-coloured  costumes,  gay  or  bizarre, 
mingle  bewilderingly,  and  the  general  effect 
is  distinctly  foreign. 

More  private  in  its  nature  and  different  in 
character,  though  as  pleasing  to  view,  is  the 
fancy  dress  ball  in  connection  with  the 
Radfahrer  (Cycling)  Club  at  the  German 
Gymnasium,  in  Pancras  Road,  where  all  the 
charming  frauleins,  daughters  and  sisters  of 
members,  come  from  Ealing,  from  Hampstead, 
from  Forest  Gate,  and  the  other  parts  of 
London    which    most    of   their    compatriots 


ox   A   BANK    HOLIDAY  :    HAMPSTEAD   HEATH. 


CHILDREN'S    FANCY    DRESS    BALL    AT    THE    MANSION    HOUSE. 


DANCING    LONDON. 


221 


frequent,  and  vie  in  "dressing  up" — a  sport  as 
beloved  of  the  mature  as  of  the  little  ones  in 
the  nursery.  The  exiled  sons  of  the  Father- 
land bring  with  them  their  national  customs, 
so  the  Christmas  tree  and  the  merry  dance 
hold  a  place  of  honour  amongst  the  Yule- 
tide  festivities. 

To  those  who  associate  the  licensed  vic- 
tualler only  with  the  bar,  and  the  cabby  only 
with  the  box,  it  will  be  news  that  they  too 
have  each  their  annual  dance  in  connection 
with  benevolent  societies  which  afford  relief 
to  necessitous  members  of  their  class. 

This  article  would  be  by  no  means  com- 
plete if  it  failed  to  take  into  account  the 
children  who  dance  in  the  London  streets. 
Go  where  you  will,  you  see  these  little  ones, 
sometimes  comfortably  clad,  but  oftener  in 
rags  and  tatters,  moving  to  the  merry  strains 
of  a  piano-organ.  How  lightly  they  bound, 
and  twirl,  and  wheel.  With  what  grace  and 
skill  they  finish  their  steps.  Though  their 
boots  be  broken,  and  a  world  too  wide,  though 
their  hair  be  innocent  of  comb  and  brush, 
and  their  frocks  torn,  what  matter  these 
drawbacks  ?  They  dance  for  sheer  joy  in  rapid 
motion,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  watch  them. 
Where  and  how  have  they  learned  ?  Heaven 
knows.  It  may  be  that  they  picked  up  the 
steps  by  instinct,  as  it  were,  or  copied  them 
from  other  children  on  some  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day  when  they  were  taken  to 
the  gallery  to  see  the  Christmas  pantomime 
at  Drury  Lane.  There  they  go,  heel  and 
toe,  double  shuffle,  glissade,  battement,  high 
kick,  all  correct. 

And  the  others — the  lucky  ones  whom  they 
copy,  the  children  who  dance  at  Drury  Lane 
or  possibly  in  the  Empire  ballet — where  do 
they  get  their  training?  Why,  of  course,  in 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  from  Madame 
Katti  Lanner.  Katti  Lanner  is  the  queen, 
the  mother  of  the  London  ballet,  and  lucky 
indeed  are  the  little  dancers  in  embryo  who 
come  to  her.  These  children  undergoing 
instruction  at  the  Athena_'um  Hall  on  Tues- 
day, Thursday,  and  Saturday  afternoons,  when 
school  is  over,  make  a  pretty  picture.  They 
are  so  lissom,  so  interested  in  their  work. 
The  bright  little  maids  come  in  chattering 
like  so  many  magpies,  and  after  greeting 
their  teacher  and  their  companions  with  an 
affectionate     kiss,    change    in    a    twinkling 


from  their  ordinary  outdoor  garb  into  ortho- 
dox ballet  skirts,  or  a  co.stume  approximate 
thereto.  At  a  given  signal  they  post  them- 
selves at  the  back  of  certain  rows  of  chairs 
in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  and,  holding  on 
with  one  hand,  go  through  their  preliminary 
exercises,  bending,  and  so  on,  making  each 
limb  as  supple  as  whalebone. 

Here  are  the  celebrities  of  the  future. 
Later  on,  some  of  these  faces  will  be 
pictured  in  every  shop  window,  some  of 
these  now  unknown  names  will  be  in  every 
Londoner's  mouth.  Exercises  over,  orthodox 
ballet  dancing  follows  when  the  chairs  are 
cleared  away.  The  little  ones  bound,  twirl, 
and  pose ;  and  how  they  enjoy  it  all.  The 
smallest  practise  their  steps  in  the  back- 
ground, with  grave  faces,  while  awaiting  their 
turn.  Indeed,  the  smaller  they  are  the  more 
interested  they  seem.  Experience  shows  that 
grown-up  English  girls  are  seldom  willing  to 
devote  as  much  time  and  energy  to  this 
arduous  profession  as  their  Continental  sisters. 
They  will  not  work  as  hard.  This  is  why, 
despite  their  natural  advantages,  England  can 
set  no  native-born  dancer  against  a  Taglioni, 
a  Fanny  Essler,  or  a  Pauline  Duvernay. 

Though  they  are  not  hard-wo.-king  at 
the  profession,  we  have  already  shown  that 
English  girls  are  exceedingly  fond  of  dancing 
as  a  recreation.  If  anyone  doubts  it,  let  him 
visit  the  girls'  clubs  in  Stepney,  or  Hoxton,  or 
the  Mile  End  Road.  After  a  long  day's 
labour  in  a  mineral  water  factory  (whose 
employees  are  sometimes  distinguishable  by 
their  bound-up  hands,  or  faces  scarred  by 
bursting  bottles),  in  a  match  factory,  a  jam 
factory,  or  a  tailor's  shop,  they  will  start  to 
their  feet  at  the  first  sound  of  the  piano,  and 
circle  with  an  activity  fairly  surprising.  They 
dance  with  each  other,  and  seem  to  desire  no 
other  partners.  Typical  East-Enders  are 
the.se  lasses,  with  a  shock  of  dark  hair  combed 
forward  and  forming  an  arch  from  ear  to  ear. 
Their  dresses  are  bright  blue  or  purple  for 
choice,  but  often  the  original  colour  is  only  to 
be  guessed  at.  There  is  always  a  tendency 
in  the  East-End  costume  for  bodice  and  skirt 
to  part  company,  but  an  apron  generally 
bridges  the  gap.  A  difficulty  that  besets 
the  ladie.s  \\ho  have  established  factory 
girls'  clubs  is  found  in  the  social  differences 
existing  between  those  working  at  different 


LIVING    LONDON. 


trades,  alike  as  they  appear  oiitwardh-. 
Experience  shows  that  girls  who  work  in 
a  jam  factory  do  not  always  care  to  asso- 
ciate with  girls  engaged  in  a  rope  factory, 
while  those  who  \\ork  in  a  rope  factory  do 
not  readily  become  intimate  with  others 
employed  in  making  matches,  and  so  it  goes 
through  all  the  branches  of  labour  in  which 
the  club  members  are  emploj-ed.  Ver)-  fine 
distinctions  are  drawn,  and  nothing  gives 
greater  offence  than  to  class  one  girl  with 
another  whom  she  regards  as  her  inferior. 

For  those  less  exclusive  and  socially  am- 
bitious than  the  East  End  club  girl  there 
are  penny  dances  in  rooms  at  the  back  of 
public-houses,  where  the  coster  and  his  "  pals" 
male  and  female  disport  themselves.  There 
are  also  dances  "  free,  gratis,  and  for  nothing," 
when  weather  permits,  in  any  asphalted  side 
street  with  a  convenient  public-house  at  the 
corner  where  refreshment  may  be  obtained  in 
the  pauses.  The  girls  are  the  first  to  start. 
Their  "  young  men  "  lounge  around  and 
guffaw  until  they  are  pulled  or  pushed  into 


the  circle  and  compelled  to  take  their  share, 
which  they  do  after  a  fashion  more  uncouth 
than  the  girls,  some  of  whom  waltz  admirably. 
A  ]5ank  Holida)'  on  Hampstead  Heath 
affords,  too,  an  excellent  view  of  this  side  of 
Dancing  London.  Here  many  such  groups 
may  be  .seen,  groups  beguiled  from  the 
fascinations  of  "kiss  in  the  ring"  by  the 
superior  charms  of  rhythmic  revolution.  And 
thus  goes  it  through  all  classes,  from  lords 
and  ladies  to  costers  and  their  "  donahs." 

"  Soldier,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor,  rich  man, 
poor  man,  beggar,  thief,"  as  the  old  rhyme 
has  it,  they  all  dance,  which  reminds  us,  by 
the  wa)',  that  we  have  not  mentioned  the 
soldiers'  dance  at  Wellington  Barracks,  when 
the  ball  room  is  gay  with  the  regimental 
colours,  and  the  non-commissioned  officers 
do  the  honours.  This  is  a  night  of  nights 
to  the  daughters  of  the  regiment,  not  ex- 
cluding its  sweethearts  and  wives,  who,  active 
and  indefatigable,  must  by  no  means  be 
omitted  from  our  brief  survey  of  Dancing 
London. 


AT    AX    KAST-KND    WORKING    GIKLS     CLUB. 


223 


'"  .^^^H^^HiSi 

n 

1. .. 

I 

1 

l^ 

^ 

t 

PROBATE    KEGISTKY  :    PUBLIC   SEARCH   ROOM. 


SOMERSET    HOISE 

By  CHARLES  OLIVER. 


THIS  is  the  place 
which  earns  for 
tiie  Government 
most  of  its  money, 
which  sees  that  we 
pay  our  taxes,  which 
cuts  off  a  shce  of  any 
legacies  that  are  left 
to  us,  which  keeps  our 
wills  when  we  pass 
over  to  the  majority, 
which  stamps  our 
legal  documents, 
which  records  all  the 
births  and  deaths  and 
marriages,  and  which 
with  its  three  to  four 
thousand  employes  does  a  hundred  and  one 
other  things  for  the  benefit  of  the  nation. 

Stand  for  a  while  in  the  great  quadrangle 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  roaring  Strand. 
A  stream  of  anxious  humanity  is  hurrying 
hither  and  thither,  now  forwards,  now  back- 
wards, pouring  itself  into  this  door,  emptying 
itself  into  that.  There  are  young  clerks  and 
old  clerks — you  can   tell  them  by  the  pens 


A    DOOR-KEEPER. 


behind  their  ears — private  individuals  both 
ancient  and  modern,  curiosity-mongers,  liars, 
cranks,  impostors,  touts.  Every  conceivable 
class  is  represented.  If  you  follow  the 
black-coated  portion  of  the  crowd  you  will 
see  something  which  you  have  probably 
never  seen  before.  You  will  enter  the  Public 
Search  Room  of  the  Probate  Registry  where 
amongst  others — solicitors'  clerks  and  the 
rest — those  who  have  waited  for  dead  men's 
shoes  discover  how  little  those  shoes  were 
worth.  Perhaps  two  dozen  persons  are 
present.  They  are  of  all  sorts  and  all 
conditions.  Yet  in  one  particular  they  bear 
a  common  resemblance,  for  on  every  face  is 
a  mingled  air  of  uncertainty  and  expec- 
tation. 

Young  and  old,  male  and  female,  the 
healthy  and  the  sick — each  one  is  poring 
feverishly  over  an  index.  One  lady  in  rusty 
black  can  perhaps  scarcely  turn  the  pages, 
so  shaky  are  her  hands.  And  watch  the 
old  fellow  with  the  grizzled  beard  and  beetle 
brow  by  her  side.  He  has  presented  the 
clerk  with  a  shilling,  and  in  return  has 
received  a  search  ticket  which  entitles  him 


224 


LIVING    LONDON. 


to  look  up  the  indexes  to  the  wills.  He  has 
just  discovered  the  eiitr)'  and  has  filled  in 
a  form  explaining  which  will  he  requires. 

A  messenger  appears  and  conducts  him 
to  an  adjoining  room.  Flushed  and  e.xcited 
this  is  one  of  the  supreme  moments  of  his 
life.  The  fact  is  that  his  brother  has  recently 
died — Heavens  !  how  long  he  has  waited  for 
the  event ! — and  his  hopes  are  high.  The 
executors  of  the  departed  one  have  declined 
to  afford  him  any  information,  but  there  is 
;£' 10,000  down  in 
the  will  and  the 
rogues  want  the 
monej'  for  them- 
selves —  he  is 
certain  of  it. 

Presently  he 
gets  the  regis- 
tered copy  of 
the  will,  or,  if 
sufficient  time 
has  not  elapsed 
for  a  copy  to 
have  been  made, 
the  actual  will 
itself.  The 
searcher  has  ex- 
plored the  vaults 
below  and 
brought  it  up 
with  almost 
lightning  de- 
spatch. An 
official  sits  at  a 
table  in    the 

centre  of  the  room,  but  he  is  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  the  stranger.  He  has  seen  too 
much  of  the  working  of  the  human  passions — 
too  much  of  the  greed  of  gold.  The  duty  he 
has  to  perform  consists  simply  in  satisfying 
himself  that  no  one  does  more  with  a  will 
than  copy  the  names  and  addresses  of  the 
executors  and  the  date  and  private  number 
of  the  document.  To  take  voluminous  notes 
is  contrary  to  the  regulation.?.  To  return 
to  our  fortune-hunter :  his  jaw  has  dropped, 
and  as  he  continues  to  read  it  drops  more 
and  more.  An  oath  escapes  him.  Throw- 
ing the  document  angrily  on  the  table  you 
hear  him  mutter  : 

";^  1 0,000,  and  the   whole   lot  gone   to   a 
dogs'  home!" 


A   CHEQUE-STAMPING    ROOM. 


Linger  a  little  longer  and  more  food  will 
be  provided  for  your  reflection.  A  spend- 
thrift .scapegrace  sails  jauntily  in.  Isolated 
from  his  family,  he  has  heard  in  a  round- 
about way  that  his  father  has  died.  Con- 
vinced that  the  "  old  boy "  relented  on  his 
death-bed  he  has  come  to  Somerset  House 
anticipating  to  be  told  that  a  few  thousands 
are  due  to  him.  Eagerly  scanning  the  will 
he  is  soon  out  in  the  Strand  again.  The 
measure  of  his  success  can  be  gauged  by  the 

cloud    on    his 
brow. 

The  will  side 
of  Somerset 
House  is  one  of 
its  most  extraor- 
dinary features. 
The  constant 
succession  of 
black-r  o  bed 
figures  provides 
a  study  in  the 
human  emotions 
which  cannot 
possibly  be 
obtained  else- 
where. Side  by 
side  with  the 
widow  who  is 
genuinely  full  of 
grief  and  tears, 
and  whose  face 
is  a  picture  of 
sadness,  there  is 
another  type  of 
widow.  You  can  see  her  on  most  days. 
She  dresses  in  the  deepest  mourning  and 
wears  the  most  cheerful  of  expressions.  She 
is  one  of  the  philosophers.  She  has  come 
into  ^ 1 5,000,  and  has  already  another  husband 
in  view. 

It  is  time  now  that  we  inspected  the  Inland 
Revenue  Department,  which  brings  in  more 
money  than  any  other  office  in  the  world. 
With  its  huge  staff — in  number  second  only 
to  the  Post  Office — it  earns  not  far  short  of 
i!'8o,000,000  a  year,  and  may  be  appropri- 
ately termed  the  grumblers'  paradise.  Hither 
come  those  who  feel  that  they  have  reason 
to  dispute  the  assessment  of  their  income  ; 
and  every  attention  is  paid  to  complaints  by 
the  courteous  officials.     Here,  for  instance,  is 


u 
w 

D 

o 

X 

H 
UI 

w 

q: 
bJ 

2 
O 


SOMERSET    HOUSE. 


225 


a  studious-looking  gentleman  who  puts  his 
case  with  business-like  precision,  and  departs 
with  a  satisfied  expression.  Next  comes, 
perhaps,  a  stout,  red-visaged  man  who  talks 
in  loud  tones  to  the  harassed  clerk  at  the  desk. 
He  has  sent  a  furious  letter  to  Somerset  House 
addressed,  "  The  Income  Tax  Man,  London." 
His  earnings  amount  to  ^2,000  a  year,  and 
in  his  righteous  rage  he  has  put  them  down 
at  £iSO.  An  impudent  Assessor,  however, 
has  charged  him  on  ^50°-  He'll  starve 
rather  than  submit  to  the  extortion. 


has  eventually  resulted.  Yet  in  strict  truth 
one  is  bound  to  say  that  the  tender  .solicitude 
evinced  at  Somerset  House  for  the  fair  .sex 
is  only  a  part  of  the  duty  demanded  by  the 
authorities  of  their  employes.  For  example, 
when  a  lady  lodges  a  claim  for  repayment 
the  clerk  asks  her  whether  she  is  married  or 
single.  It  doesn't  follow  because  he  does 
this  that  there  is  anything  the  matter  with 
his  heart.  He  is  instructed  to  apply  for  the 
information.  Yet  who  can  wonder  if  such 
a    touching      request     sometimes     leads    to 


STAMPING    KOOM. 


There  are  many  like  him.  Hundreds  of 
thousands  of  pounds  are  lost  annually  to  the 
country  by  people  who  succeed  in  evading 
the  income  tax.  They  will  tell  you  as  much 
at  Somerset  House. 

It  is  worth  mentioning  perhaps  that  the 
Repayment  Department — the  branch  where 
you  get  your  money  back  if  you  have  been 
taxed  too  highly — is  a  fine  field  for  eligible 
bachelors,  inasmuch  as  it  is  patronised  exten- 
sively by  ladies  of  considerable  charm  and 
susceptibility.  There  are  cases  on  record 
of  fair  claimants  for  the  return  of  income 
ta.x  being  so  impressed  with  the  courtesy  of 
Somerset  House  young  men  that  marriage 
29 


matrimony  ?  An  official  who  put  this  query 
to  a  lady  the  other  day  received  the  following 
answer  by  letter : 

"  I  am  eighty-six,  and  have  been  a  spinster 
all  my  days.  I  expect  there  is  very  little 
chance  for  me  now." 

Everybody  connected  with  the  Income 
Tax  Department,  it  may  be  useful  to  remark, 
from  the  Surveyors  of  Taxes  down  to  the 
youngest  clerks,  has  to  take  an  oath  of 
secrecy — that  is  to  say,  on  entering  the 
service  they  are  called  upon  to  swear  that 
they  will  not  disclose  particulars  of  any 
person's  income. 

Raking  in  as  it  does  over  a  million  pounds 


226 


LIVING    LONDON. 


WHEKK    DOCUMENTS    AKK    STAMI'HI). 


sterling  a  week,  the  Inland  Revenue  Depart- 
ment may  well  be  called  the  Klondike  of  the 
Strand.  Burglars  have  gazed  upon  it  with 
speculating  eyes,  but  so  far  they  have  not 
yielded  to  temptation.  The  heads  of  the 
profession  taboo  Somerset  House.  The  truth 
is  that,  although  the  clerks  of  the  Bank  of 
England  call  once  every  twenty-four  hours 
for  the  money,  which  they  take  away  in  four- 
wheelers,  they  invariably  do  .so  in  broad  day- 
light. Again,  Somerset  House  has  its  own 
staff  of  police.  They  are  old  police  pen- 
sioners and  army  and  navy  men,  and  at  night 
they  patrol  the  place  with  lanterns.  Were 
it  left  unguarded  Somerset  House  might 
stand  to  lose  a  million.  The  stamps  and 
stores  office  must  itself  be  worth  a  millionaire's 
income,  for  it  is  from  here  that  all  the 
stamps  required  by  the  countless  post-offices 
distributed  throughout  the  kingdom  are 
despatched.  Nor  must  one  forget  that  all 
our  postcards  are  stamped  and  all  our 
cheques  embossed  at  Somerset  House. 

It  is  difficult  to  get  away  from  the  Inland 
Revenue  Department,  so  far-reaching  are  its 
ramifications.  Take  now  the  Estate  Duty 
Office.  (Jiaze  upon  the  crowd.  Look  at  the 
frail,  complaining  widow  trying  to  excite  the 
compassion  of  the  young  man  at  the  desk. 
She  doesn't  want  to  pay  a  penny  duty  on 
the  ^10,000  that  have  been  left  her.  She  is 
alone  in  the  world. 


No  less  interesting  is  the  Excise  Department. 
Licences  of  various  kinds  and  excise  matters 
generally  are  attended  to  here.  If  you  keep 
a  dog  and  refuse  to  pay  for  the  privilege  the 
Board,  which  consists  of  four  Commissioners, 
takes  steps  to  show  you  the  error  of  your 
ways.  A  lady  once  declined  to  take  out 
a  dog  licence  on  the  ground  that  she  dis- 
approved of  the  war  in  the  Transvaal. 

Full  of  life  is  the  busy  office  of  the 
Registrar  of  Joint  Stock  Companies.  For  a 
shilling  you  can  learn  a  good  deal  here,  as 
the  shady  company  promoter  and  other 
impostors  have  long  since  discovered  ;  for  it 
is  in  this  department  that  lists  of  shareholders 
can  be  seen. 

We  now  arrive  at  the  Registrar-General's 
bureau,  which,  of  course,  is  human  to  the  core. 
In  safe-keeping  here  are  the  records  of  all 
the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages  that  take 
place  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales. 
This  department  may  be  said  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo  of  romance.  Apart  from 
litigants  and  lawyers,  who  flock  there  by  the 
dozen,  it  is  held  in  much  esteem  by  lovers 
and  ex-lovers.  For  instance,  supposing  a 
man  has  a  horrible  doubt  as  to  the  age  of  a 
certain  young  lady,  supposing  he  wishes  to 
know  whether  she  is  thirty-five  or  forty-five — 
whether  she  is  growing  younger  or  older — he 
can  invest  a  trumpery  shilling  at  Somerset 
House  and  see  the  entry  of  the  lady's  birth 


SOMERSET    HOUSE. 


227 


in  the  register.  He  can  do  even  more.  For 
the  absurd  sum  of  two  and  sevenpence — 
half  a  crown  for  a  copy  of  the  certificate  and 
a  penny  for  the  stamp — he  can  arm  himself 
with  documentary  evidence.  And  he  very 
often  does — in  the  coldest  of  cold  blood.  Such 
is  human  nature. 

Much  could  they  relate  of  love  in  the 
Registrar-General's  Department.  The  office 
doesn't  look  a  palace  of  Cupid,  but  Cupid  is 
ever  straying  thither.  The  young  Romeo 
and  the  old  Romeo — they  both  turn  to  it. 
You  can  see  the  latter  frequently,  a  man  of 
seventy,  bald,  grey-bearded,  tottering,  yet 
warm  of  heart.  He  is  hungering  for  the 
woman  who  was  his  flame  fifty  years  ago. 
They  parted  one  night,  went  different  ways, 
and  have  never  met  since.  In  his  old  age 
the  old  love  has  returned,  and  he  takes  a  'bus 
to  Somerset  House  to  ascertain  if  the  angel 
of  his  youth  is  still  a  spinster.  And  so  it  is 
with  the  young  Romeo.  Six  months  ago  he 
had  a  difference  with  his  sweetheart,  and  all 
communication  between  them  has  ceased. 
What  he  wants  to  be  sure  of  is  that  the  girl 
has  not  married  someone  else. 

On  the  other  hand  there  are  the  Romeos 
who  want  to  satisfy  themselves  that  their 
Juliets  have  not  been  led  from  the  altar  by 


any  other  man,  the  henpecked  husbands  who 
imagine  that  their  wives  mtist  have  been 
married  before,  and  the  bigamist  trackers 
from  New  Scotland  Yard.  Indexes  for  five 
consecutive  years  may  be  .searched  for  the 
sum  of  one  shilling  ;  but  for  a  general  search 
of  them  a  sovereign  must  be  paid. 

The  Exchequer  and  Audit  Office  hard  by 
is  about  as  dry  as  it  looks,  yet  it  is  all 
important,  for  within  its  walls  the  Govern- 
ment's accounts  arc  audited. 

Continuing  our  round  we  enter  the  vaults, 
where  millions  and  millions  of  documents 
are  stored — wills,  birth  registers,  marriage 
registers,  death  registers,  books  and  papers 
of  every  imaginable  description.  And  as  we 
wend  our  way  .Strandwards  we  cross  the 
quadrangle  again,  which  is  the  drilling  ground 
of  the  Civil  Service  Volunteers.  Here  every 
evening  during  the  summer  one  can  watch 
a  batch  of  raw  recruits  being  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  goose  step  :  while  if  you 
are  an  early  riser,  and  find  yourself  opposite 
Somerset  House  between  seven  and  eight,  you 
can  witness  the  interesting  spectacle  of  dozens 
of  charwomen  of  all  ages  entering  its  portals. 
These  e.xcellent  ladies  are  burdened  with  the 
responsibility  of  cleaning  the  building  every 
morning  by  half-past  nine  of  the  clock. 


AN    I.N'COME   TAX    COMPLAINT. 


228 


CHRISTIE  S. 


ROIND    THE    LONDON    AlCTION    ROOMS. 

By  F.  M.  HOLMES. 


AUCTIONS  form  a  notable  feature  of 
London  life.  Let  us  go  first  to  Christie's 
— one  of  the  most  fashionable  and  one 
of  the  most  interesting  auction  rooms  in 
London.  The  finest  paintings,  the  choicest 
porcelain,  the  most  sumptuous  furniture  fall 
under  the  hammer  here.  Queen  Victoria's 
wine  was  put  up  for  sale  in  these  fine 
galleries.  The  "smart"  .set  condescend  to 
look  in,  to  examine  old  Lord  A's  canvases 
or  Lady  B's  china,  and  hear  the  prices 
they  fetch. 

The  green  baize-covered  walls  are  hung 
with  pictures,  the  wide  ceilings  rise  into 
large  glass  lanterns  which  flood  the  rooms 
with  light,  and  the  floors  are  smooth  and 
unencumbered.  You  would  hardly  think 
these  well-kept  galleries  formed  an  auction 
room  ;  they  might  even  be  a  part  of  the 
Royal  Academy  itself  J^ut  there  is  the 
famous  rostrum,  used  by  the  "  original  "  Mr. 
Christie    himself — and    a   fine    specimen    of 


Chippendale  work  it  is — whence  many  a  great 
collection  has  been  dispersed  ;  and  in  front  of 
it  are  assembled  those  who  have  come  to  buy 
or  to  look  on. 

"  Lot  I,"  says  a  quiet,  level-voiced  gentle- 
man, mounting  the  rostrum.  "  What  shall 
we  say  ?  Five  hundred  guineas  ? "  And 
without  more  ado,  the  sale  begins.  Porcelain 
and  pictures  to-day — some  of  them  fine  spe- 
cimens indeed,  but  there  is  no  particular 
laudation  of  them,  for  their  excellence  seems 
accepted    as  a  matter   of   course. 

"  Five  hundred  guineas  ?     Six  ?     Seven  ? 
Eight?     Nine?     A  thousand?" 

Where  are  the  bidders  ?  You  hear  no 
sound.  But  do  you  see  that  gentleman  in 
the  first  row  of  chairs  round  the  table  ?  He 
almost  imperceptibly  nods  his  head  ;  and  he 
in  the  rostrum,  who  sees  everything  like  a 
hawk,  interprets  that  gesture  of  assent  to 
mean  a  hundred,  and  announces  it  accord- 
ingly.    You  cannot  see  the  other  bidder,  and 


ROUND  THE  LONDON  AUCTION  ROOMS. 


229 


the  rivals  do  not  know  each  other ;  but  at 
last  our  friend  in  front  shakes  his  head 
impatiently,  and  temporarily  retires  behind 
his  neighbour's  back.  The  hammer  falls, 
but  not  with  a  startling  clang  as  at  less  well- 
bred  establishments,  and  the  unknown  has 
purchased  the  piece. 

Some  extraordinary  prices  are  realised  at 
times.  Thus,  a  pearl  necklace  once  fetched  no 
less  than  i^20,ooo.  It  started  at  ;£'io,ooo,  and, 
rising  by  bids  of  .£"500,  reached  double  the 
first  offer  before  the  hammer  fell.  Again,  a 
pair  of  Louis  XV.  cabinets  began  at  ;^5,ooo, 
and  running  up  by  thousands,  after  reaching 
;^io,O0O,  were  sold  for  ;^i 5,000.  On  the 
other  hand,  many  a  piece  begins  at  a  guinea, 
and  rising  by  half-guineas  is  sold  for  three  or 
four  guineas. 

From  Christie's  we  may  go  to  Sotheby's. 
The  change  is  from  the  art  gallery  to  the 
library.  The  spacious  room  is  walled  with 
books,  and  the  business  proceeds  very  quietly. 
It  seems  almost  more  like  a  calm  conversa- 
tion than  a  sale.  Some  of  the  rarest  and 
choicest  of  volumes  may  be  seen  here,  and  the 
amount  of  money  that  changes  hands — as 
witness  the  ;^3 3,000  for  the  Ashburnham 
Library — is  on  occasion  very  large.  There  are 
genuine  book  lovers  present,  as  well  as  dealers  ; 


you  can  .see  them  bending  low  down  to  ex- 
amine a  rare  folio  on  a  shelf  near  the  floor,  or 
peering  closely  into  varied  editions  of  Thomas 
a  Kempis.  It  has  been  the  work  of  a  life- 
time to  collect  these  editions,  and  now  at 
a  blow  of  the  hammer  they  are  to  be 
scattered  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Equally  interesting  is  .Stevens',  in  King 
Street,  Covent  Garden.  This  is  the  great 
place  for  curiosities.  If  you  want  an  idol,  or 
a  South  Sea  islander's  canoe,  the  skin  of  a 
wild  animal  or  the  stuffed  animal  it.self,  you 
can  probably  buy  it  here.  Mr.  Stevens' 
reputation  is  so  great  that  the  strangest 
things  from  all  parts  of  the  globe  are  sent 
to  him.  The  crowds  that  throng  his  rooms 
are  large  and  varied — larger,  perhaps,  than 
in  any  other  of  the  famous  auction  rooms 
of  London.  All  sorts  of  people  crowd  hither  ; 
but  there  is  no  disturbance,  there  are  no 
commission  touts  worrying  you  at  every  turn. 
Ladies  can  come  and  turn  over  at  their 
ease  these  beautiful  silken  coats  from  China  ; 
bric-a-brac  collectors,  with  hat  on  back  of 
head  and  spectacles  low  on  nose,  may 
examine  with  loving  care  these  small 
bronze  ornaments  from  Benin  ;  business-faced 
dealers  who,  of  course,  crowd  to  every 
auction,    may    ponder   their    prices    for   this 


SOTHEBV  s. 


J30 


LIVING    LONDON. 


old  jewel-box  of  Tonquin  work  encrusted 
with  mother-o'-pearl,  or  these  relics  of  the 
Boer  War  ;  while  a  ministerial-looking  la}-- 
man,  whose  hobb}-  it  is  to  collect  heathen 
idols,  may  gaze  with  intense  interest  on  this 
hideous  head  from  the  West  Coast  of  Africa. 

Lot  after  lot  Mr.  Stevens  puts  up  in  a  quiet 
conversational  voice,  never  telling  anecdotes, 
or  expatiating  on  his  curiosities,  unless  they 
are  of  exceptional  character  ;  the  description 
in  the  catalogue  is  generally  sufficient.  Now 
it  is  a  large  Japanese  idol,  presentl\-  it  will 
be  that  curious  light  Chinese  coat  cunningly 
fashioned  of  bamboo  ;  one  day  it  will  be  a 
Transvaal  flag  —  the  Vierkleur  —  taken  at 
Johannesburg  ;  again  it  will  be  a  Chinese 
Imperial  seal,  large,  .square,  and  heav)-,  made 
of  solid  silver,  and  a  relic  of  the  capture 
of  Pekin  ;  on  another  day  it  will  be  a  mummy 
of  ancient  I'lgN-pt. 

Or  do  you  want  a  horse  ?  London  auction 
rooms  can  supply  you.  Not  far  from  Stevens' 
flourishes  Aldridge's,  where,  as  at  Tattersall's, 
horses  are  sold.  No  ladies  here  in  the  crowd. 
A  few  gentlemen  who  want  horses,  substantial 


tradesmen  who  require  ponies  for  their  busi- 
nesses, dealers  and  grooms  everywhere,  and 
of  every  kind,  examining  hoofs  and  teeth, 
vehicles  and  harness  ;  interested  spectators, 
as  at  most  auctions  ;  and  many  others. 

The  large  sale  yard  is  thickly  strewn  with 
sand  and  is  roofed  with  glass,  so  that  auctions 
can  be  conducted  in  all  weathers.  Stables 
have  been  rebuilt  and  electric  fans  fitted  to 
keep  them  cool  in  summer.  The  rostrum 
stands  in  a  snug  corner  on  our  left  as  we 
enter,  while  a  powerful  hydraulic  lift  on  the 
other  side  raises  vehicles  for  sale  up  to  the 
carriage  gallery  on  the  right  hand,  whence 
also  bidders  and  spectators  look  down  on  the 
horses  and  the  crowd. 

"  Lot  20,"  says  the  auctioneer,  glibly  run- 
ning the  words  off  his  tongue,  "  quiet-to-ride- 
an'-drive,-sound-in-wind-an'-eyes  !  Twenty  ! 
Twenty  guineas  !  Half!  Twenty-one — ride- 
an'-drive,-sound-in-wind-an'-eyes  !  A  half! 
Twenty-two !     See-him-go-again." 

And  once  more  the  groom  trots  the  animal 
up  and  down  the  sanded  yard,  and  the  group 
of   buyers   close    round    or   give  way  as  the 
horse  passes  them. 

"  Ride-an'-drive,"  re- 
peats the  gentleman  in 
the  rostrum.  "  Twenty- 
three!  Half!  Twenty- 
four  I  Going  at  twenty- 
four  !  "      Tap  !      The 


STEVENS . 


ROUND  THE  LONDON  AUCTION  ROOMS. 


231 


hammer  falls,  and  another  groom  appears 
at  once  with  the  next  lot.  Wonderful  is 
the  variation  of  the  prices  realised.  Some 
animals  will  go  for  five  guineas  and  some 
for  five  hundred,  and  even  more. 

Astonishing,  too,  are  the  prices  realised 
occasionally  by  rare  postage  stamps.  At 
Puttick  and  Simpson's  you  may  see  a 
well-dressed  crowd  taking  part  in  the 
dispersion  of  a  great  collection.  Earls  and 
dukes,  ladies  and  boys,  are  in  the  throng, 
as  well  as  dealers.  The  stamps  are  fastened 
by  little  gummed  paper  hinges  to  a  stout 
sheet  of  paper  which  has  a  protecting  cover, 
and  are  handed  among  the  purchasers  as  if 
they  were  pieces  of  old  plate  or  pottery.  Some 
stamps  are  costly  enough,  and  the  bidding  runs 
fast  and  high.  Here  is  an  8i-paras  Moldavia, 
first  issue,  knocked  down  at  .£^227  ;  a  Canada, 
185 1,  twelvepence,  black,  at  £$7',  and  a 
United  States,  1869,  thirty  cents,  with  in- 
verted centre,  at  £$4-  At  this  rate  you  are 
not  surprised  to  hear  that  a  four  days'  sale 
of  varied  stamps  will  probably  total  over 
;£^5,000.  But  the  auctioneer  runs  them  off 
in  most  matter-of-fact  manner,  though  some 
of  them  are  worth  more  than  a  ;^iOO  bank- 
note. 


THE    ROSTKUM. 

You  may  see  something  more  for  your 
money — in  size — at  Phillips'  in  Bond  Street. 
Here  a  whole  houseful  of  furniture  crowds 
the  rooms.  Everybody  seems  to  be  a  dealer, 
the  women  as  well  as  the  men,  and  quite  as 
keen  for  a  bargain.  The  careful  matter-of- 
fact  manner  in  which  these  ladies  turn 
over  the  household  gods,  as  if  considering 
what  they  shall  give  and  what  they  will  get, 
suggests  the  sharp  business  experience.  And 
a  little  feminine  impatience  manifests  itself 
at  times.  The  hammer  has  fallen  on  a 
picture,  and  a  buxom  young  Jewess  begins 
to   e.xpostulate. 

"  I  told  you,"  says  the  auctioneer  decidedly, 


232 


LIVING    LONDON. 


PHILLIPS. 


"  that  thirty-six  shillings  was  bid  by  Mr.  So- 
and-So,  and  that  it  was  against  you."  And 
without  another  word  he  proceeds  with  the 
next  lot. 

But  after  the  sale  you  notice  the  Jewess 
talking  with  a  shabby  genteel  man  who  is,  no 
doubt,  Mr.  So-and-So,  and  they  are  evidently 
arranging  a  little  deal  on  their  own  account. 

Phillips'  is  quiet  enough,  as  are  Sotheby's 
and  Christie's.  Debenham's  has  a  name  for 
diamonds,  and  the  Mart,  Tokenhouse  Yard, 
as  everybody  knows,  for  land  and  houses. 
But  we  change  indeed  if  we  plunge  into 
an  auction  of  goods  left  in  railway  carriages. 
An  extraordinary  collection  of  things  ac- 
cumulates in  the  course  of  twelve  months 
or  .so,  and  their  sale  by  auction  proves  a 
very  rough-and-ready  business  compared 
with  the  quiet  and  refinement  of  Sotheby's 
or   Christie's. 

"How  much  for  the  umbrellas!"  cries  the 
auctioneer,  as  a  lot  of  twelve  is  put  up. 
"  Two  shillings  !  Si.x  !  Three  shillings  !  Six  ! 
Four!  "  Bang  !  And  a  dozen  umbrellas  have 
been   sold   at   fourpence  apiece.      But   there 


arc  more  to  follow.  Hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  umbrellas  are  offered  in  lot  after  lot,  as 
well  as  boots  and  socks  and  old  silk  hats ; 
and  the  dealers  who  push  and  crowd  round 
the  rostrum  pick  up  many  a  cheap  bargain. 

We  siiik  a  good  deal  lower  when  we  come 
to  the  mock  auctions,  and  see  something 
of  the  seamy  side  of  London  sales.  A 
distressed  widow  instructs  Mr.  Smooth 
Tongue  to  offer  her  hou.seful  of  furniture 
because  her  husband  has  died,  or,  to  vary 
the  tale,  the  lady  may  be  going  abroad  to 
rejoin  her  beloved  spouse.  All  kinds  of 
goods,  some  of  which  have  been  picked  up 
cheaply  at  genuine  sales  and  some  manu- 
factured for  the  purpose,  are  put  into  such 
an  auction  ;  and  under  the  plausible  speech 
of  the  man  in  the  rostrum,  and  the  excite- 
ment of  competition,  the  profit  realised  by  the 
unscrupulous  vendors  is  very  satisfactory. 

Then  there  are  the  doings  of  the  "  knock- 
out "  gang  at  a  genuine  private-house  auction. 
The  members  of  the  ring  meet  together, 
and  agree  not  to  bid  against  each  other, 
and  to  prevent,  if  possible,  anyone  else  from 


ROUND  THE  LONDON  AUCTION  ROOMS. 


233 


bidding.  The  consequence  is  that  the  gang 
are  often  able  to  get  the  goods  at  very  low — 
or  knock-out — prices,  and  afterwards  hold  an 
auction  among  themselves  and  divide  the 
profit.  If  an  outsider  bids  against  them 
they  may  punish  him  by  running  up  the 
price,  and  then  suddenly  leave  him  in  the 
lurch ;  or  a  couple  may  proclaim  in  loud 
conversation  that  they  intend  to  purchase 
at  any  price,  and  so  discourage  bidders  or 
force  up  the  cost. 

Once  more,  there  are  those  temporary 
auction  rooms  which  spring  up  .suddenly 
in  a  public  thoroughfare,  and  then  disappear. 
"  Sale  now  on  !  Sale  now  on  !  "  cries  an 
individual  at  the  wide  entrance.  The  shop 
window  has  been  taken  down,  and  the  room  is 
invitingly  open  to  the  street.  A  few  men 
are  sometimes  hired  to  stand  round  the 
rostrum  and  begin  the  bidding.  Many  a  story 
of  heartbreak,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  hidden 
behind  these  rooms.  A  struggling  artist 
urgently  in  need  of  cash  sends  his  paint- 
ing,    for    what     it    will    fetch.       Some     of 


the  pictures  are  rubbish ;  the  man  in  the 
rostrum  admits  with  a  fine  air  of  frankness 
that  "  they  are  only  furnishing  things,"  and 
he  starts  the  bidding  him.self  at  a  shilling. 
P'inally  a  pair  of  such  pictures  are  knocked 
down  to  a  man  who  may  be  a  prosperous 
mechanic  at  seven  shillings  apiece.  Then 
up  come  a  better  pair.  "  The  Academy  con- 
tains many  worse,"  cries  the  auctioneer,  "  and 
very  few  superior."  But  you  will  not  get 
these  at  .seven  shillings  each ;  the  man  in 
the  rostrum  knows  how  to  put  a  reserve 
upon  such  things. 

There  are  all  kinds  of  London  auctions 
— the  fashionable  and  the  aristocratic,  the 
curious,  the  tricky,  and  the  commonplace. 
Some  are  not  without  their  pathos  as  we 
think  of  the  owners  who  loved  the.se  things 
now  dispersed  in  such  matter-of-fact  manner  ; 
some  are  businesslike  enough  ;  but  all  attract 
their  bargain  hunters  and  their  interested 
spectators,  for  there  is  scarcely  a  thing  that 
can  be  sold  which  does  not  at  one  time  or 
other  fall  under  the  ivory  hammer. 


A   SALE   OF    UNCLAIMED   KAILWAY    LUGGAGE. 


30 


234 


wardresses'  recreation  room  (holloway). 


IN    HOLLOWAY    AND    BRIXTON    PRISONS. 

By  MAJOR  ARTHUR  GRIFFITHS. 


HOLLOWAY  in  certain 
circumstances  has  an 
open     door.       The 
heavy    gates    fly    back    at 
once     before     the     official 
visitor ;    the    outsider,    who 
has    armed   himself  with   a 
permit  from  the  powers  that 
be,    will    be    allowed    to 
see    something    of    the 
inside.    Yet  another  way 
remains,  within  reach  of 
those    who     choose     to 
try     it     and     of     many 
more  that  have  it  forced 
upcjn    them :    to    offend 
against    the    law,    or    be    supposed    to    have 
broken  it. 

Holloway,  the  cabinan's  "  castle,"  was  long 
the  principal  House  of  Detention  f(jr  the 
metropolis,  the  place  of  passage  between 
freedom     and     imprisonment  —  perchance    a 


shameful  death.  It  was  essentially  the  "  trial 
prison "  for  London,  and  chiefly  occupied 
by  those  suspected  of  crime,  or  directly 
accused  of  it.  Nowadays,  its  uses  have 
been  more  restricted,  and  it  has  become 
the  chief  receptacle  for  female  offenders 
only. 

The  administrative  changes  so  constantly 
in  progress  in  ever)'  large  public  department 
have  led  to  the  substitution  of  Brixton  Prison, 
in  the  south-western  suburbs,  as  the  recep- 
tacle for  all  male  prisoners  committed  for 
trial.  The  old  buildings,  at  one  time  appro- 
priated to  convicts  doing  "separates,"  and 
afterwards  to  military  prisoners,  have  been 
much  modified  and  enlarged,  although 
additions  have  still  to  be  made. 

At  Brixton  the  van  arrives  with  a 
doleful  load  of  committals  from  one  or 
other  of  the  courts  :  a  policeman  who  has 
made  a  long-delayed  capture,  or  has  secured 
his    man    on    the    very    scene,    in    the    very 


IN    HOLLOWAY    AND    BRIXTON    PRISONS. 


235 


A    CORRinOR. 

act  of  a  crime,  brings  his  prisoner  hand- 
cuffed in  a  cab ;  the  bailiff  walks  up 
quietly  with  a  contumacious  debtor  whom 
the  county  court  judge  has  sent  to  gaol 
for  a  brief  space  as  a  warning  to  meet  his 
engagements. 

All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  are  on 
view  in  the  exercising  yards  of  Brixton. 
Here  is  a  "  swell "  in  frock  coat  and  tall 
hat ;  he  is  of  good  presence,  with  a  pleasant 
face,  and  is  charged  with  being  the  moving 
spirit  of  a  Long  Firm  fraud.  Behind  him 
walks  a  London  pickpocket — small,  active, 
with  a  foxlike  face  and  the  loping  gait  that 
carries  him  fast  bej'ond  pursuit  ;  followed  by 
costers  and  riverside  characters,  seafaring  men 
— a  Lascar,  perhaps,  or  a  heathen  Chinee — 
the  butcher,  still  in 
his  blue  blouse,  the 
artisan  in  green  baize 
apron,  just  as  he  was 
taken  from  his  bench 
after  he  had  done  the 
deed.  Hither  come 
chance  criminals,  pos- 
sibly "  first  offenders," 
along  with  habitual 
criminals,  bearing 
the  now  ineradic- 
able signs  of  their 
dread  calling,  the 
fierce     eyes     of    a 


bird    of   prey,    the    lowering    brow,    the 
savage,  truculent  mouth. 

They  are  fair  game  for  the  police, 
and  the  hunters  are  at  hand.  Three 
days  a  week  there  u.scd  to  be  a  great 
gathering  of  detective  officers  at  Hollo- 
way.  They  came  from  all  the  London 
divisions,  and  their  business  was  to  run 
down  the  men  they  knew,  often 
enough  a  man  "  much  wanted "  who 
had  long  evaded  pursuit,  but  having 
been  caught  for  .some  minor  offence  was 
now  "  remanded  for  inquiry."  He  came 
at  Holloway  under  the  search-light  of 
many  practised  eyes.  Our  police  have 
abandoned  the  Bertillon  system  of  iden- 
tification, and  exclusivcK'  u.se  the  record 
of  the  "finger  prints,"  the  Indian  system 
advocated  by  Mr.  Henry,  at  one  time 
the  chief  of  police  in  Bengal,  and  sub- 
sequently Chief  Commissioner  of  Met- 
ropolitan Police,  but  they  long  clung  to 
the  older  aids  of  memory  and  instinct. 
Again  and  again  people  were  "  picked  up " 
in  Holloway,  recognised  with  absolute  cer- 
tainty as  having  passed  through  police 
hands. 

Police  day  used  naturally  to  be  dreaded, 
and  often  dramatic  scenes  ensued  when  the 
long-missing  fugitive  was  collared  and  run  in. 


PREPARING    HIS   DEFENCE. 


LIVING   LONDON. 


Other  scenes  were  enacted  of  a  more 
serious,  often  murderous  kind.  It  was  in 
the  exercising  yard  at  Hollowa}'  that  Fowler 
came  across  Milsom,  when  full  proof  of  the 
Muswell  Hill  murder  was  obtained  b)'  the 
admissions  of  the  latter,  and  Fowler,  having 
openly  threatened  his  too  outspoken  con- 
federate in  the  dock,  attacked  him,  here,  the 
first  time  the>-  met.  A  sufficient  force  of 
warders  was  at  hand,  happil)-,  and  mis- 
chief was  prevented,  but  after  that  the  two 
accused  murderers  of  poor  old  Mr.  Smith 
were  exercised  widely  apart  in  different 
corners  of  the  yard. 

Brixton,  as  the  home  of  the  unconvicted, 
of  prisoners  kept  in  durance  on  no  better 
excuse  than  that  of  safe  custody,  has  few  of 


sterer.  It  was  so  in  Holloway,  when  a 
certain  duchess  was  permitted  to  beautify 
her  quarters,  albeit  one  room — no  more. 
Dr.  Jameson  and  his  companions  hired  the 
arinchairs,  and  carpets,  and  bookcases  needed 
to  make  their  daily  life  more  tolerable. 

Yet,  again,  in  the  matter  of  food  Brixton 
has  its  own  peculiar  privileges.  While  the 
poorer  prisoners  must  be  satisfied  with  the 
prison  diet,  those  who  can  pay — and  so  the 
world  wags  always  ! — may  "  supply  them- 
selves." There  are  eating  houses  adjacent  to 
the  gates  ready  to  contract  on  the  official 
scale  for  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea,  or  the 
prisoners  depend  on  their  friends  to  bring 
in  their  meals.  A  large  amount  of  work  is 
thrown  upon  the  prison  officials  in  this  matter 


H.  M.  Prison,^ 

glfffUItO  Fbom  roLicE  Constable. 
committed  from . ^_^ 


_and  tile  property  beionging  to  them. 


_thc  under-mentioned  prisoners. 


Peofbbtt 


_-G0TEEN0E. 


RECEIPT   FOR    PRISONERS. 


the  aspects  of  a  common  gaol.  Hard  labour 
is  unknown  in  it,  save  for  a  small  handful 
kept  there  for  menial  service.  There  is  no 
treadwhecl,  no  stone  breaking,  none  of  the 
more  irksome  trades  imposed  upon  the  felon 
labourer.  The  bulk  of  the  inmates  wear  their 
own  clothes,  and  the  rule  is  carried  as  far  as 
it  will  go,  even  when  those  clothes  are  ragged 
and  unkempt,  decency  and  cleanliness  being 
the  only  conditions  insisted  upon.  Brixton, 
too,  offers  superior  accommodation  to  those 
who  can  pay  for  it.  A  certain  number 
of  cells  are  furnished  and  fitted  up,  not 
luxuriously,  but  with  bedstead,  and  tabic, 
and  chest  of  drawers,  for  which  the  occupant 
is  charged  a  shilling  or  two  per  week.  The 
concession  of  so-called  comfort  is  carried  even 
further,  and  more  distinguished  prisoners  of 
the  kind  called  first-class  misdemeanants  are 
at  liberty  to  draw   upon   the   nearest   uphol- 


of  food.  It  is  brought  in  tins,  and  basins,  and 
bundles,  tied  up  in  towels  or  red  handker- 
chiefs— great  slices  of  meat,  cold  vegetables, 
cold  bacon,  eggs,  and  loaves  of  every  variety, 
and  the  utmost  care  must  be  observed  to  give 
each  his  own  proper  allowance.  The  regula- 
tions, too,  allow  a  small  quantity  of  stimulant, 
a  pint  of  beer,  or  half  a  pint  of  wine,  and 
here,  again,  there  is  endless  trouble  among 
the  bottles,  and  tankards,  and  cans. 

Another  jjeculiar  aspect  of  Brixton  is 
afforded  by  the  character  and  status  of  its 
principal  occupants.  They  are  mainly  for 
trial,  on  their  defence  that  is  to  .say,  and  they 
are  entitled  to  every  facility  in  preparing  to 
appear  in  court.  Certain  hours  are  set  aside 
for  interviews  with  legal  advisers  ;  lawyer  and 
client  sit  alone  in  the  room  specially  provided, 
quite  private  as  regards  sound,  but  with  a 
glazed  side  so  that  the  warder  on  duty  may 


CO 

> 


< 

Q 

as 
< 

o 


U 

a5 
u 

X 

>< 
o 

O 


238 


LIVING    LONDON. 


keep  his  eye  on  all  that  goes  on.  Solicitors 
seldom  work  without  fees,  and  the  penniless 
prisoner — once  more  it  is  money  that  rules — 
must  work  unaided  b\-  advice.  He  ma)'  have 
as  much  paper  as  lie  pleases,  and  can  draw  up 
any  number  of  statements.  Some  of  the  high- 
flyers in  crime  do  both,  and  spend  their  da}s 
awaiting  trial  between  interviews  with  their 
lawyers  and  preparing  most  voluminous 
documents. 

Session   daws   are   the   busiest  in   Bri.xton ; 


the  great  vans  are  loaded  for  the  journey 
down  to  the  courts,  antl  escort  duty  falls 
heavily  upon  the  officers.  It  is  not  merely  the 
safe  keeping  en  route,  the  certain  production 
in  court  of  those  about  to  plead,  but  there  is 
much  business  in  connection  with  papers, 
and  especiall)'  the  personal  propert\-  of  the 
accu.sed,  which  must  go  down  for  immediate 
restoration  on  acquittal.  No  one  can  be 
detained  after  a  fa\ourable  verdict  is  given, 
and  all  effects — mone\-,  watches,  jeweller)-,  and 
so  forth — must  be  handed  then  and  there  to 
the  discharged  prisoner  as  he  leaves  the  dock 
a  free  man.  The  van  takes  back  a  lighter 
loati — fewer  people,  but  with  heavier  hearts, 
for  the  second  passage  of  the  gaol  gates 
means  the  second  stage  on  a  weary  road 
leading  to  Penton\-ille,  or  Wormwood  Scrubs 
to  Lewes,  Chelmsford,  the  "separate  prisons" 
for  London  convicts,  and  further  on  to  Bor- 
stal, Portland,  and  Dartmoor. 

Although  Molloway  at  one  time  was  chiefly 
appropriated  to  the  accused  pending  trial,  it 
held  other  classes  of  prisoners :  misdemean- 
ants of  the  first  class,  debtors,  juveniles,  and 
women,  each  under  different  methods  of  treat- 
ment. The  misdemeanants  were,  so  to  speak, 
the  aristocrats  of  the  gaol,  venial  offenders 
whose  punishment  is  separation  from  the  rest 


I.    SACK-MAKING.      II.     IN   THE   KITCHEN    (hOLLOWAy). 


IN    HOLLOWAY   AND   BRIXTON    PRISONS. 


239 


INFIRMARV, 


of  the  world,  but  with 
no  serious  discomfort 
or  lasting  disgrace. 
The  editor  who  had 
transgressed  the  law 
of  libel  ;  the  titled 
lady  who  had  a  dif- 
ference with  a  judge 
by  defying  an  order 
of  court;  the  filibusters 
who  levied  war  on 
their  own  account  and 
had  to  stand  the 
racket  of  failure — all 
these  used  to  be  rele- 
gated to  Holloway, 
and  now  find  their 
way  to  Brixton.  I 
have  seen  an  eminent 

litterateur  warming  his  own  soup  over  the 
cell  fire  while  his  proofs  lay  on  the  table 
awaiting  correction,  for  the  misdemeanant  is 
permitted,  in  reason,  to  attend  to  his  business; 
the  ladies  have  been  occupied  with  millinery 
and  art  wool-work  ;  the  raiders,  whose  mili- 
tary achievements  had  not  been  brilliant,  still 
studied  war,  and  I  can  call  them  to  mind 
busily  engaged  in  constructing  miniature  for- 
tifications in  the  prison  yard. 

Imprisonment  for  debt,  as  such,  is  thought 
to  have  been  abolished,  but  those  who  "  can 
pay  and  will  not "  may  still  find  themselves 
locked  up  in  gaol.  These  victims  to  im- 
pecuniosity  are  sometimes  to  be  much  pitied  ; 
the  debts  have  often  been  incurred  by  their 
wives  without  their  knowledge,  or  they  are 
owing  through  a  misunderstanding  with  the 
tax-gatherer  or  the  agent  for  Council  School 
rates.  Boj's  nowadays  are  seldom  sent  to 
gaol,  the  law  having  been  greatly  improved  in 
that  respect ;  but  it  was  possible  to  hear  a 
child  crying  his  eyes  out  in  the  loneliness  of  a 
Holloway  cell,  to  which  he  had  been  com- 
mitted because  his  parents  or  guardians  had 
not  done  their  duty  by  him,  or  because  some 
vindictive  employer  would  not  forgive  a  petty 
theft.  It  was  sad  to  see  those  of  tender  years 
already  clothed  in  felon  garb,  and  the  more 
humane  practice  now  is,  as  much  as  possible, 
to  lead  them  back  to  the  right  path  by  edu- 
cation, physical  development  by  drill  and 
gymnastics — above  all,  by  instruction  in  useful 
trades. 


Holloway  is  nowadays  exclusively  the 
female  prison  for  the  metropolis.  It  takes 
both  kinds  of  women,  the  "  tried "  and 
"  untried,"  as  well  as  the  debtor  and  the 
misdemeanant.  The  contrasts  between  in- 
dividuals when  untried  are  very  marked, 
and  are  due  to  the  endless  variety  in  female 
costume  :  in  bonnets  alone,  every  style,  every 
fashion  almost,  may  be  .seen  in  the  exercis- 
ing yard.  A  notorious  dipsomaniac,  who  for 
years  was  a  well-known  figure  in  the  Metro- 
politan police  courts,  used  to  be  brought  in 
fresh  from  some  wild  revel,  still  splendid  in 
a  crimson  silk  skirt  and  white  opera  cloak  ; 
immediately  behind  her  stalked  some  virago 
who  had  blackened  her  husband's  eyes  (ex- 
cusably perhaps),  or  a  poor  starving  soul  with 
a  baby  nestling  in  her  arms,  whose  offence 
was  no  worse  than  a  theft  of  food.  The  pains 
and  penalties  of  wrongdoing  are  also  inflicted 
in  Holloway.  There  is  hard  work  and  plenty 
of  it  for  the  convicted  female  :  in  the  laundry, 
a  spacious  apartment  amply  provided  with 
wash-tubs  and  wringing  machines,  mangles, 
and  flat-irons  ;  in  the  kitchen,  for  the  whole 
of  the  cooking  in  Holloway  is  done  by  the 
prisoners ;  and  endless  emplo\'ment  in 
stitching  and  .sewing  and  knitting — also  in 
sack-making — throughout  the  prison. 

An  axiom  holds  with  prison  officials  that 
women  are  more  difficult  to  manage  than 
men.  Certainly  it  is  so  in  Holloway  :  mis- 
conduct, chronic  and  persistent,  is  intensified 
by   hysteria,   and    these    unse.xed    creatures 


240 


LIVING   LONDON. 


respect  no  authority.  At  times  the  place  is 
like  a  pandemonium.  Yet  I  have  known  the 
most  savage  and  seemingly  intractable  con- 
quered by  a  kind  word.  In  the  babies'  ward 
• — for  many  inmates  of  gaols  are  mothers 
still  nursing — tenderness  and  affection  are 
constantly  shown.  Before  \\e  condemn  these 
degraded  specimens  of  the  softer  sex  we 
should  remember  what  they  have  suffered.  It 
is  enough  to  see  them  in  the  "  Reception  "  \vard 
on  the  morrow  of  arrest,  torn  and  bedraggled, 
sodden  with  drink,  their  faces  bruised,  and 
with  other  marks  of  ill-usage,  to  realise  how 
cruel  often  is  their  lot.  P'or  many,  indeed, 
the  prison  is  a  haven  of  rest.  Old  hands 
have  been  known  to  commit  themselves  on 
purpose  to  secure  a  snug  winter  retreat.  It  is 
a  common  practice  with  women  to  get  into 
gaol  from  "  Saturday  to  Monday,"  certain 
of  a  warm  bath,  food,  and  a  "  clean-up." 

The  female  officers — the  wardresses — have 
a  life  full  of  anxieties,  even  dangers,  for 
assaults  are  not  uncommon ;  yet  are 
they  mild  mannered,  forbearing  to  their 
troublesome  sisterhood,  and  have  strong 
claims  to  the  respect  and  esteem  of  the 
public  at  large.  As  Holloway  is  their 
home,  the  authorities,  not  forgetting  that 
there  should  be  play  as  well  as  hard  work, 
have  provided  comfortable  quarters  for  them, 


and  a  large  well-furnished  "  recreation"  room. 
The  old  intimate  connection  between  disease 
and  crime  has  given  increased  importance 
to  the  prison  hospital.  Holloway  is  well 
provided ;  its  infirmary  is  spacious,  well 
mounted,  a  model,  far  superior  to  those  in 
most  workhouses.  It  is  generally  filled  with 
genuine  maladies,  and  much  suffering  is  to 
be  found  among  the  prisoners,  though  num- 
bers are  always  "  trying  it  on  "  with  feigned 
diseases.  Among  the  male  sick  at  Brixton, 
mental  cases  of  course  abound.  Many  are 
sent  in  really  for  "report" — for  medical 
evidence  as  to  their  responsibility  for  crimes 
committed — and  it  often  rests  with  the  prison 
doctor  whether  Broadmoor,  the  great  criminal 
lunatic  asylum,  or  the  condemned  cell  is  to 
be  the  murderer's  ultimate  portion.  The 
conscientious,  anxious  care  with  which  this 
solemn  duty  is  discharged  reflects  the  highest 
credit  on  those  entrusted  with  it.  One  and 
the  same  encomium  must  be  passed  upon  all 
prison  officials,  from  the  Governor,  bound  to 
uphold  discipline,  the  chaplain,  untiring  in  his 
ministrations,  the  surgeon,  painstaking  and 
considerate,  resolved  to  bring  his  best  scientific 
knowledge  to  bear  upon  his  business,  to  the 
warders  and  wardresses,  ever  hard  worked 
and  sorely  tried,  but  ever  well  disposed  to 
their  unfortunate  charges. 


MEETING   DISCHARGED   PRISONERS   AT   THE   GATES   (hOLLOWAV). 


241 


BERWICK   STKEF:T   0\    a   SUNDAY    MOKMXG. 


COSMOPOLITAN     LONDON. 

By  COUNT  E.  ARMFELT. 


NO     part    of 
the  world 
presents 
in  such  a  small 
area     so    many 
singular     and 
i  nteresting 
pictures  of  cos- 
mopolitan     life 
as    Soho,  which 
is  the  cherished 
home  of  foreign 
artists,    dancers, 
musicians, 
singers,      and 
other  talented   performers,  and  the  sanctuary 
of  political    refugees,  conspirators,  deserters, 
and  defaulters  of  all  nations. 

To  the  initiated  Soho  is  a  land  of  romance 
— a  Bohemia  and  an  Alsatia.  But  to  the 
British  country  cousin  it  is  mainly  a  con- 
glomeration of  odd  characters.  He  may 
imagine  himself  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  or  in 
Santa  Lucia,  or  within  the  boundaries  of  a 
far-off  ghetto  ;  he  finds  himself  in  a  crowd  of 
31 


men,  \\omen,  and  children  of  alien  types — 
hatchet-faced  Greeks,  strong-featured  Jews, 
sallow  Frenchmen,  yellow-skinned  Levantines, 
Swiss  and  Italians,  fair  and  dark,  turbaned 
Moors,  fezzed  Kabiles,  and  ebony  sons  of 
Africa.  To  behold  these  people  on  their 
arrival  in  the  little  hotels  of  Soho  is  both 
interesting  and  instructive.  Many  of  them 
have  undergone  sea  voyages,  as  the  labels  of 
their  luggage  denote  ;  and  they  reveal  them- 
selves in  the  curious  garbs  of  their  native 
countries.  In  a  day  or  two  they  will,  with  k\v 
exceptions,  be  all  dressed  in  the  clothes  of 
modern  civilisation.  The  red  and  white 
turbans  and  the  fez  of  the  Turks,  the  yellow 
koofieh  of  the  Syrians,  the  conic  headgear 
of  the  Persians,  the  toques  of  the  Montene- 
grins, the  fur  caps  of  the  Russians  and  the 
Poles,  will  disappear,  and  so  will  the  stately 
kaftans,  the  picturesque  baggy  trousers,  the 
embroidered  vests,  the  ample  kilts,  and  the 
greasy  sheep-skins.  They  will  all  be  relegated 
to  the  bottom  of  old-fashioned  hair-covered 
trunks. 

Everywhere     in     Soho    there     are    queer 


242 


LIVING    LONDON. 


announcements  of  foreign  wares  and  eatables. 
Wine  shops,  too,  are  numerous,  and  at  night 
attract  small  groups  of  foreigners  who  indulge 
in  heated  discussion. 

Thoroughly  representative  of  cosmopolitan 
■life  in  its  humbler  aspects  is  Berwick  Street, 
the  main  artery  of  Soho,  through  which 
pulse  and  throb  the  foreign  throngs  of 
workers  who  make  it  their  High  Street  and 
market-place.  See  it  on  Saturday  night, 
when  the  shops  and  the  stalls  flare  their 
naphtha  beacons  on  the  swarthy  faces  of  the 
bearded   men  and  the  becrrimed  women  and 


Street  you  can  buy  and  sell  anything  and 
ever\-thing.  The  Italian,  French,  Swiss,  and 
German  waiters  and  others  sell  or  exchange 
watches  and  trinkets  which  have  been  lost 
at  cards,  or  endeavour  to  persuade  you  tO' 
buy  the  pledge-ticket  of  a  gold  watch  or  a 
diamond  pin.  Further  on  men,  women,  and 
children  listen  to  the  patter  of  medicine 
vendors,  and  a  tall  red-haired  man  harangues 
an  excited  crowd  of  German  tailors  and 
bootmakers. 

While    the    fairly   well-to-do    dwellers    in 
Cosmopolis     are     smoking,     chatting,     and 


AliSINTHK    DRINKKKS. 


children,  and  you  will  never  forget  the  weird 
scene.  But  the  Saturday  market,  though 
carried  on  long  after  midnight,  still  leaves 
one-tenth  of  the  working  population  without 
provisions  for  the  morrow  ;  so  the  Sunday 
morning  market  becomes  a  necessity,  the 
people  are  in  the  street  early,  and  a  fair  is 
established  on  the  kerb  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  roadway. 

The  Jewesses  who  on  the  previous  night 
were  .selling  petticoats,  bodices,  and  baby- 
linen  have  .sent  their  hu.sbands  and  sons  with 
bundles  of  second-hand  clothes  and  sacks 
full  of  old  boots  vamped  to  make  them  look 
quite  pre.sentable.  Coats  and  waistcoats  are 
tried  on  in  the  street,  and  the  fit  is  always 
pronounced    most    excellent.       In    Berwick 


shrugging  their  shoulders  by  way  of  doubt 
or  disbelief,  the  poor  foreign  artisans  and  " 
their  wives  may  be  seen  bargaining  for 
pieces  of  meat  outside  the  butchers'  shops,, 
and  buying  the  supply  of  cheap  rye-bread 
which  will  last  the  family  the  whole  week. 
Such  are  the  humours  and  pictures  of  Sunday 
morning  life  in  Soho. 

In  Walker's  Court,  which  is  the  con- 
tinuation of  Berwick  Street,  and  in  Old 
Compton  Street  and  Rupert  Street,  the 
cosmopolitan  gourmet  and  epicure  can  pro- 
cure the  tripes  a  la  mode  de  Caen,  the 
delicate  andouillettes,  the  nouilles  or  Nudeln 
which  are  the  delight  of  the  Frenchmen  and 
Alsatians ;  all  the  varieties  of  garlic  and 
sausages  ;  the  cheeses  from  France,  Germany, 


COSMOPOLITAN    LONDON. 


243 


Italy,  and  Greece ;  and  in  the  season  the 
lovely  frogs'  legs  sold  on  long  sticks,  and 
the  esculent  fscar£-o/s— the  luscious  snails — 
which  P'rench  rentiers  (retired  tradesmen) 
breed  in  their  gardens  and  tend  with  patriotic 
pride. 

There  are  foreign  shops  where  all  com- 
modities generally  required  by  foreigners  can 
be  bought  or  hired.  There  are  emporiums 
where  French  and  Ticinese  chefs  and 
scullions,  German,  Austrian,  Italian,  and 
Swiss  waiters,  can,  without  crossing  another 
threshold,  choose  kitchen  utensils,  boots, 
slippers,  wooden  shoes  or  sabots,  vests,  over- 
alls, cigarette  papers,  caps,  dress  shirt-fronts, 
-and  where  dress  suits  can  be  hired  by  the 
■day  or  the  week — for  Cosmopolitan  London 
•contains  an  enormous  number  of  culinary 
-artists  and  table  attendants  ;  and  not  infre- 
quently one  meets  with  the  oddest  and  most 
incongruous  assortment  of  goods  in  the  same 
^hop. 

There  are  any  number  of  employment 
agencies  and  so-called  clubs  and  homes, 
which  are  also  registry  offices.  Some  of 
them  have  reading- 
rooms,  where  un- 
employed aliens 
«moke,  drink,  and 
play  at  dominoes 
and  cards  for  small 
stakes.  If  you  care 
to  see  where  all 
these  men  in  and 
■out  of  employment 
sleep,  just  peep  into 
the  lodging-houses 
of  Gerrard  Street, 
-Church  Street, 
Frith  Street,  Greek 
Street,  Dean  Street, 
Wardour  Street, 
and  the  by-streets, 
where  "  Apart- 
ments," "  Cliamhres 
Ganiics"  ''Mbhlirtc 
Z  i  in  in  c ;-,"  and 
"  A p p art c incntt 
Mohiliati  "  can  be 
read  over  the 
doors  and  in  the 
windows. 

There,      in     the 


AN    AKAU    CAFfe. 


lodging-hf)uses  which  were  mansions,  mostly 
with  three  windows  to  the  street  on  each 
floor,  you  will  see  the  stairs  bare  of  carpet 
or  oil-cloth,  your  steps  will  sound  hollow, 
and  the  walls  will  echo  with  every  move- 
ment you  make.  You  will  find  the 
drawing-rooin  partitioned  into  three  little 
bedrooms,  which  are  occupied  by  head- 
porters  and  waiters,  wh(j  are  the  aristocracy 
of  the  house.  The  accommodation  is  of  the 
barest.  The  back  room  has  one  window,  the 
light  of  which  is  divided,  for  there  is  a  thin 
match-board  wall  which  makes  two  bed- 
rooms ;  the  second  floor  is  very  much  the 
same  as  the  first  ;  on  the  third  floor  there 
are  two  public  dormitories.  One  contains 
from  four  to  six  beds ;  the  other  perhaps 
three  double  beds.  There  are  tawdry-framed 
pictures  of  actre.sses  on  the  first  floor  ;  illus- 
trated sheets  from  periodicals  and  coloured 
almanacs  on  the  second  floor;  and  little 
pieces  of  looking  glass  on  the  walls  of  the 
top  floor.  The  garrets  are  occupied  by 
musicians  who  practise  instruments,  painters, 
composers,  and  professors  of  foreign  languages 

out  of  luck.  The 
single  beds  in  the 
dormitories  are  let 
at  five  shillings  a 
week  ;  the  double 
beds  are  charged 
three  shillings  to 
each  occupant.  The 
cubicles  fetch  from 
eight  to  ten  shil- 
ling.s. 

Other  lodging- 
houses  devoted 
exclusively  to  the 
gentler  sex  are 
commodiously  fur- 
nished, though  all 
in  them  is  old  and 
worn.  The  crockery 
is  chipped,  the  side- 
board  has  its 
corners  knocked 
off,  the  gas  and 
lamp  globes  are 
cracked. 

The  parlours  are 
let  to  governesses 
who  give  lessons  in 


I.    STREET   SCENE.      U.    IN    MTTLE    CKOWN   COUKT.      III.    AN    8l).   TAIil.K    d'h6tE 
(WITH    FACSIMILE  OF    .MENU).      IV.    SUNDAY   MOKNING   SHOPPING. 


COSMOPOLITAN    LONDON. 


245 


French,  German,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  and 
to  Parisian  modistes  and  sempstresses  ;  and 
the  top  rooms  are  let  to  demoiselles  de 
comptoir  and  restaurant  and  pastrycooks' 
assistants. 

All  these  people  eat  and  drink  in  restau- 
rants according  to  their  means.  In  them  one 
may  breakfast  and  dine  at  almost  any  price  : 
one  may  partake  of  the  cuisine  bourgeoise, 
which  allows  a  variety  of  dishes,  in  addition 
to  two  vegetables,  a  dessert,  a  petit  cafe  and 
pain  a  discretion  for  eightpence  ;  or  if  one 
prefers  the  cucine  alia  casa  lingua,  which  in- 
cludes a  niinestra,  a  regaglia  di  polio,  a 
piece  of  Gorgonzola,  a  glass  of  Italian  wine, 
and  a  large  piece  of  bread,  the  e.xpense  will 
be  the  same. 

In  the  German  houses,  which  also  cater 
for  Swedes,  Danes,  and  Norwegians,  the 
Mittags  Essen  (midday  meal)  costs  as  little 
as  fourpence.  It  is  simple  and  filling,  but 
then  these  Northerns  are  thirsty  souls,  and 
spend  in  Lager  Bier  what  they  economise  in 
other  ways. 

There  are  restaurants  where  one  may  dine 
at  eighteenpence,  wine  included,  and  others 
again  where  the  table  d'hote  costs  three  or 
five  shillings.  Many  of  them  send  dinners  and 
suppers  out  at  any  hour,  even  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  if  required.  Again,  there  are 
not  a  few  that  have  hardly  any  customers 
in  the  daytime,  but  in  which  at  night  men 
and  women  pass  through  the  dining-room 
upstairs,  and  through  a  side  door.  You  hear 
laughter,  and  sometimes  shrieks  and  sounds 
of  quarrelling.  Soon  after  all  the  lights 
disappear,  and  all  is  silent.  Someone  watch- 
ing from  an  upper  window  has  seen  the 
police.  This  is  one  of  the  commonest  phases 
of  Soho  life. 

In  England,  where  the  law  closes  the  cafes 
early  on  Sundays,  and  where  music  and 
dancing  and  card-playing  meet  with  restric- 
tions, the  foreigner  finds  himself  utterly 
desolate  when  the  clock  strikes  eleven.  It 
cannot  therefore  be  wondered  at  that  clubs, 
where  men  and  women  can  eat  and  drink, 
and  enjoy  themselves,  are  common  in  Soho. 
The  Artistes'  Club,  in  Lisle  Street,  is  one 
of  these  modest  and  inexpensive  institutions. 
Its  furniture  and  decorations  are  of  the 
simplest,  and  its  walls  only  show  tasteful 
photographs. 


Sauntering  through  the  streets  you  will 
see  houses  the  ground  floors  of  which  were 
shops.  The  lower  half  of  the  plate-gla.ss 
window  has  been  painted,  and  the  upjwr  one 
discloses  a  hugje  blind  clo.sely  drawn.  In 
the  daytime  the  house  is  still  as  the  grave. 
About  four  o'clock  there  comes  a  man  with 
a  bunch  of  key.s.  If  you  have  .secured  his 
good  will,  you  may  examine  the  house.  The 
entrance  has  two  doors,  an  outer  and  an 
inner  one.  Passing  through  the  latter  into 
the  room  which  was  originally  the  shop, 
another  door — sometimes  in  the  form  of  a 
shallow  cupboard  or  clothes  press — leads  to 
the  back  parlour.  There,  and  in  the  spacious 
first  floor  room,  all  is  green  and  red — the 
favourite  colours.  Dancing  and  gambling 
often  go  on  here  until  the  small  hours.  The 
upper  rooms  are  bedrooms.  Higher  up  there 
is  a  trap-door  leading  to  the  rcof,  and  a 
movable  ladder  can  be  pulled  up  in  case  of 
necessity.  Men  have  escaped  the  police 
through  the  roof  to  adjoining  premises.  A 
part  of  the  yard  has  been  built  upon.  It  is 
the  bar.  The  kitchen  is  below,  but  the 
suppers  are  generally  cold.  Such  are  the 
usual  arrangements  in  the  Soho  gaming 
hou.ses.  When  the  proprietors  are  fined  or 
imprisoned,  a  bootmaker  may  turn  the  par- 
lour again  into  a  shop,  and  a  dancing  master 
may  use  the  other  parts  for  himself  and  his 
pupils.  The  Terpsichorean  art  has  many 
adepts  in  Soho. 

Most  interesting  characters  are  the  men 
and  women  who  have  travelled  the  world 
over  to  e.xhibit  marvellous  talents.  One 
may  see  them  every  day  in  the  lodging 
houses  of  Lisle  Street ;  at  the  stage  entrances 
of  the  neighbouring  variety  halls  and  at  the 
Hippodrome  ;  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and  on 
the  broad  pavement  of  Leicester  Square — 
their  favourite  promenade,  their  boulevard, 
and  their  Champs  Elysees.  There  may  be 
met  Andalusian  dancers,  Bohemian  acrobats 
and  fiddlers,  Cossack  hcrss  whisperers  and 
trainers,  Bulgarian  wire  dancers  and  dagger 
jugglers,  Austrian  and  German  gymnasts, 
lion-tamers,  and  strong  men,  Moldavian 
gipsies  who  play  on  weird  instruments, 
Hungarian  equestrians  lithe  and  elegant, 
Tyrolese  whose  peculiar  songs  are  imitative 
of  their  mountain  calls,  Neapolitan  ballerine 
who   have   been   admired  in  San  Carlo  and 


246 


LIVING    LONDON. 


IN    THE    ARTISTES     CLUB. 


at  La  Scala,  and  the  nightingales  of  the 
North  and  the  South  whose  voices  may  raise 
them  to  the  positions  of  world-famed  prima- 
donnas.  But  their  nationality  is  nothing  to 
them.  They  are  cosmopolites,  and  they  call 
themselves  by  fancy  names.  Go  to  the  cafes 
and  the  bras.series  of  Leicester  Square,  and 
you  will  be  astonished  at  the  stories  these 
people  can  tell  you. 

No  picture  of  cosmopolitan  life  in  London 
would  be  complete  if  it  did  not  include 
the  absinthe  drinkers.  For  Frenchmen  the 
spirit  of  wormwood  has  a  strange  fascination, 
almost  akin  to  that  of  opium  in  the  case  of 
Chinese.  The  perfect  preparation  of  absinthe 
is  an  art  which  can  only  be  acquired  after 
long  practice.  The  pure  absinthe  is  brought 
in  a  French  claret  glass,  and  over  it  is  a  cover 
through  which  water  can  percolate.  A  little 
piece  of  sugar  lies  on  the  cover.  The  carafe, 
or  decanter,  is  of  a  peculiar  shape^  and  has 
two  openings,  one  large  and  the  other  very 
sinall.  It  is  through  the  latter  that  the  water 
falls  on  the  sugar  and  ultimately  into  the 
glass.  When  carefully  prepared  absinthe 
takes  the  hues  of  the  opal.  But  its  effects? 
^'ou  will  unmistakably  .see  them  in  the  pallid 
faces,     the     trembling     hands,    and    in    the 


general  nervousness  of  the  habitual  absinthe 
drinker. 

There  are  houses  in  Soho  which  are 
celebrated  for  their  absinthe,  and  on  Sunday 
evening,  as  soon  as  the  law  permits,  male 
and  female  absinthe  drinkers  crowd  round 
the  tables  reserved  for  them.  It  is  among 
them  that  polyglot  Scotland  Yard  detectives 
discover  their  long-sought  prey,  and  that 
the  French  moucJiards  find  the  insouinis  who 
have  refused  military  service,  but  who  may 
be  likely  to  make  a  .short  visit  to  France  for 
business  purpo.ses.  Their  arrival  on  French 
soil  is  telegraphed  at  Calais,  Boulogne,  and 
Dieppe.  Years  will  pass  before  they  come 
to  London  again. 

A  few  of  the  cafes  are  worth  special  notice. 
One  in  the  west  of  Soho,  a  few  hundred 
steps  off  Berwick  Street,  has  for  some  years 
been  the  resort  of  strong  men,  and  their 
portraits  can  be  found  in  the  windows  and 
on  the  walls  of  the  place.  Another  is  a 
Turkish,  or  rather  an  Arab,  cafe,  which  is 
fitted  up  and  decorated  as  in  an  Eastern 
land.  And  here  Turkish  coffee,  pronounced 
ga/nuc/i,  is  prepared  to  perfection  in  an  Arab 
tanake  —  a  long-handled  copper  pot  which 
holds  one  cup  for  one  person. 


COSMOPOLITAN    LONDON. 


247 


There  are  many  other  quaint  places  in 
Soho,  which  are  intercstin<^  iKit  only  because 
they  are  picturesque,  but  also  because  one 
meets  there  so  many  odd  characters.  Such 
is  Little  Crown  Court,  a  passa<re  which 
leads  from  Wardour  Street  to  Rupert  Street. 
It  is  a  short  cut  to  the  West-End,  and  is 
thoroughly  representative  of  Soho.  On  one 
side  you  will  see  French  "  comestible  "  and 
foreign  tinned  provisions  ;  on  the  other  is 
a  double-fronted  shop,  where  on  the  right 
you  will  see  in  the  window  the  Spanish 
diarios  by  the  side  of  the  German  Zeitungen 
and  Belgian,  French, and  Italian  papers;  on  the 
left  there  is  a  haircutter,  by  whom  also  "  tabacs 
and  cigarettes  Francais "  are  sold.  Dutch 
diamond-cutters,  Kabile  table-cover  hawkers. 
East  Indian  curiosity  mongers,  French  clair- 
voyants   and   fortune   tellers,  foreign   women 


who  enamel  faces,  treat  the  throat  and  the 
bust,  and  beautify  the  features  by  the  Arabian 
process,  men  of  sinister  aspect  and  jovial  bons 
vivants,  ice  cream  merchants  and  organ 
grinders,  grandes  dames  and  petites  dames, 
use  Little  Crown  Court  to  and  from  the 
West.  And  long  after  the  shops  are  closed 
and  semi-darkness  prevails,  there  and  in  the 
labyrinths  of  little  .streets  and  courts  of  Soho 
you  will  see  them  pass  again — some  to  sleep, 
some  to  work,  soine  to  carouse  and  game. 
At  all  times  there  is  something  to  study  for 
the  student  of  human  nature. 

Soho  has  always  had,  and  always  will 
have,  its  romance  and  its  mysteries.  Its 
most  glaring  pictures  of  cosmopolitan  life 
are  being  rapidly  obliterated  ;  but,  though 
it  is  no  longer  Babylon,  it  will  ever  remain 
Babel. 


IN    LEICESTER   SQUARE. 


248 


IN    LONDON    THEATRE-LAND. 


By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 


F 


AT   A   STAGE    DOOK. 


OR  the 
price  of 
a  seat  the 
theatres  of 
London  are 
open  to  all  of 
us.  Night  after 
night  we  crowd 
the  p 1  a  y  - 
houses,  and 
"Under  the 
Clock  "  every 
day  we  find  the 
bill  of  dramatic 
fare  arranged 
to  suit  every 
variety  of  taste. 
The  side  of  theatrical  life  presented  to  the 
public  has  many  attractions.  The  side  with 
which  the  public  is  less  familiar  is  equally 
interesting.  Let  us  take  a  trip,  then,  through 
Theatre-land,  arranging  our  route  so  that  our 
journey  shall  be  principally  in  the  domain 
outside  the  theatre  it.self 

To-day  there  is  a  rush  for  the  stage.  It 
has  become  a  profession  for  the  well-born 
and  the  highly  educated.  Peers  have  taken 
to  it  for  a  livelihood,  and  ladies  of  title  have 
not  only  made  their  appearance  on  the 
London  boards,  but  have  become  members  of 
provincial  touring  companies. 

IJut  though  the  status  of  the  profession 
has  been  considerably  raised,  and  the  salaries 
of  the  leading  members  are  princely,  it  still 
remains  for  the  great  majority  both  Bohemian 
and  precariou.s.  For  many  weeks  in  the  year 
the  rank  and  file  are  "  resting  " — a  poetical 
phrase  for  being  out  of  a  berth  or,  as  the 
argot  of  the  profession  has  it,  "  a  shop." 

In  the  summer  months,  when  the  spring 
tours  are  over  and  the  autumn  tours  are  not 
coming  on  until  the  August  Bank  Holiday — 
many  not  until  September — the  offices  of  the 
agents  are  crowded  with  actors  and  actresses 
anxious  to  make  sure  of  an  engagement  when 
the  theatrical  .season  begins  again. 


If  )-ou  walk  along  the  Strand  between 
twelve  and  four  in  the  month  of  July  you  will 
come  constantly  upon  little  groups  of  clean- 
shaven men  chatting  together.  You  will  see 
the  pretty  faces  of  musical  comedy  ladies 
under  dozens  of  pretty  hats,  and  their  trim 
figures  in  dozens  of  dainty  blouses. 

If  you  turn  into  Garrick  Street  or  saunter 
through  Maiden  Lane  you  will  find  quite  a 
little  crowd  of  professionals  going  and  coming 
continually  from  eleven  to  four.  For  in  these 
streets  are  situated  two  of  the  principal 
agencies. 

Here  is  a  brass  plate  which  informs  us 
that  a  musical  and  dramatic  agency  is  on 
the  first  floor.  Let  us  ascend  the  flight 
of  stone  stairs  and  take  a  hurried  glance 
around. 

It  is  no  ea.sy  task  we  have  .set  ourselves. 
In  spite  of  a  notice  that  "Ladies  and  gentle- 
men are  requested  not  to  wait  on  the  stair- 
case "  we  find  that  so  many  are  disobeying 
the  injunction  that  we  can  with  difficulty 
make  our  way  through  the  crowd.  When  we 
reach  the  landing  that  also  is  filled.  But 
we  .see  an  open  door  and  passing  through  it 
we  find  a  large  room  filled  with  members  of 
the  profession.  Some  are  sitting  down,  others 
are  chatting  together  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  One  or  two  are  standing  by  the  open 
windows  looking  into  the  street. 

The  rooms  and  the  landing  and  the  stair- 
ca.se  are  crowded  to-day  because  it  is  known 
that  a  touring  manager  is  making  up  his 
company  for  the  new  musical  comedy  which 
he  is  producing  in  the  provinces. 

The  latter  is  in  the  manager's  room 
with  the  agent.  With  him  is  his  musical 
conductor,  and  possibly  the  librettist  and 
composer  of  the  new  "  opera."  The  leading 
7'dles  are  already  filled.  The  engagements 
now  being  made  are  for  small  parts  and 
chorus.  Every  now  and  then  the  agent 
opens  the  door,  steps  into  the  waiting-room 
and  looks  round  at  the  company.  He  sees 
a  young    lady   and    beckons  to   her.     "  Miss 


A    PANTOMIME    REHEARSAL. 


32 


2  so 


LIVING    LONDON. 


AN    AGENTS   OFFICE. 


So-and-So,"  he  says,  and  the  young  lady  rises 
and  follows  hiin  to  be  interviewed  by  the 
manager.  The  pianist  of  the  establishment 
is  at  the  piano.  The  young  lady  is  asked 
what  her  voice  is,  and  is  then  invited  to  sing. 
She  has  a  song  with  her  and  hands  it  to  the 
accompanist. 

When  she  has  finished  she  is  politely 
ushered  out  and  her  qualities  are  then 
discu.s.sed.  If  the  manager  approves  of  her 
she  is  called  in  again,  terms  are  settled,  and 
she  steps  into  an  adjoining  room  where  a 
young  lady — generally  a  typist  and  shorthand 
writer — fills  in  a  printed  form  of  contract. 
The  artist  signs  it  and  departs  with  a  smile. 
She  has  "settled  her  autumn." 

With  dramatic  companies  the  arrange- 
ments are  somewhat  different.  The  manager 
calls  on  the  agent  and  tells  him  the  kind  of 
part  he  wants  an  actor  or  an  actress  for. 
The  agent  turns  to  his  books  and  runs  over 
a  list  of  "  disengageds."  One  or  two  strike 
the  manager  as  likely.     The  agent  writes  to 


them  asking  them  to 
call  at  his  office  at  a 
certain  hour  the  next 
day.  If  a  London 
manager  has  made 
the  inquiry  the  artist 
is  told  to  call  at  the 
theatre. 

"  Rehearsal "  figures 
largely  in  theatrical 
life  in  London.  It  is 
a  far  more  elaborate 
and  painstaking  busi- 
ness than  it  used  to 
be  in  the  old  days, 
when  the  bill  was 
constantly  changed. 
To  -  clay  plays  are 
expensively  mounted, 
and  weeks  are  given 
up  to  the  preparation 
of  a  play  which,  it 
is  fondly  hoped,  may  run  many  months. 

The  early  rehearsals  of  a  play  are  not 
inspiriting.  If  we  are  privileged  to  watch 
any  of  the  tedious  rehearsals  of  a  drama  or  a 
comedy  before  it  "  shapes  "  we  shall  probably 
yawn.  The  theatre  is  only  dimly  lighted — 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  company  are 
sitting  at  the  side  of  the  stage  with  their 
"  parts."  The  stage  manager  and  the  author 
are  discussing  "  a  point."  The  prompter  is 
sitting  at  a  wooden  table.  The  walls  are 
naked  and  the  boards  are  bare.  Now  and 
again  the  theatre  cat  crosses  the  stage  wearily. 
When  at  last  one  or  two  of  the  character.} 
get  together  for  a  scene  they  read  from 
their  parts,  leaving  off  every  minute  or  two 
to  write  in  with  a  lead  pencil  the  stage  direc- 
tions given  them  by  the  manager.  Towards 
the  end  of  rehearsals,  matters  improve — as 
shown  in  the  photographic  picture  on  the 
opposite  page. 

The  dress  rehearsal  is,  of  course,  a  very 
different  affair.  But  if  there  are  no  invited 
guests  in  front  it  is  generally  very  dull. 
There  is  no  applause  to  punctuate  the  lines, 
and  no  laughter  unless  the  orchestra  is  in. 
The  orchestra  occasionally  laughs  at  a  dress 
rehearsal.  When  the  play  is  a  comedy  the 
author  is  very  grateful  to  the  orchestra. 
But  no  one  minds  a  flat  dress  rehearsal. 
It  is  a  theatrical  superstition  that  a  bad  dress 


IN    LONDON    THP:ATRE-LAND. 


2SI 


rehearsal    means   a    good    first    night.      The 
superstition  is  not  always  justified. 

The  quaintest  dress  rehearsal  scene  is  that 
of  a  pantomime,  and  that  is  only  to  be  wit- 
nessed on  the  eve  of  Christmas.  If  we  push 
open  the  stage  door  of  a  famous  London 
playhouse  on  the  evening  of  December  24th, 
we  shall  find  a  crowd  of  carpenters,  painters, 
and  scene-shifters  mixed  up  in  absolutely 
hopeless  confusion  with  fairies  and  demons 
and  princes. 

Here  are  marvels  indeed.  Lolling  about 
are  kings  with  features  which  must  strain  the 
loyalty  of  their  subjects  to  the  utmost.  Here 
are  ferocious  giants  and  wolves  and  sprites, 
and  huntsmen  in  tights,  and  princesses,  and 
all  the  people  whose  names  are  in  the  Court 
Directory  of  Fairyland.  The  Wicked  Baron 
is  asleep,  the  Demon  King  is  yawning,  the 
Giant  Ogre,  although  he  has  devoured  half 
the  village,  is  talking  gloomily  of  a  hot  supper 
that  is  waiting  for  him  at  home.  Everybody 
seems  tired  and  worn  out.  One  sweet  little  fairy 
mite  is  asleep  upon  her  mother's  lap.  The 
mother  isn't  a  bit  like  a  fairy  mother,  for  she 


is  in  faded  black  and  wears  a  widow's  bonnet 
The  sweet  little  fairy  is  the  bread  winner. 
To-night  she  is  late  becau.se  it  is  the  dress 
rehearsal,  but  every  other  night  she  will 
be  at  home  and  in  bed  when  the  clock 
strikes  ten. 

The  theatrical  world  has  its  own  special 
clubs.  At  the  Garrick  we  find  the  aristocracy 
of  the  profession.  The  Eccentric,  though 
largely  theatrical,  is  also  open  to  the  liberal 
professions  and  commerce.  The  Green  R(}om 
is  essentially  an  actors'  club,  and  there  supper 
is  an  institution,  for  supper  is  the  meal  that 
the  actor  enjoys  more  than  any  other.  His 
day's  work  is  done. 

The  Actors'  Association  has  its  own  rooms 
\\'here  during  the  day  members  may  rest, 
write  their  letters,  transact  their  business,  and 
make  their  engagements.  The  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  profession  have  found  the 
Association  greatly  to  their  advantage.  It  is 
to  a  certain  extent  a  union  for  self-protection. 
The  Association  frequently  takes  steps  on 
behalf  of  its  members  which  they  are  not 
perhaps  strong  enough  to  take  for  themselves. 


REHEARSING   A   PLAY   IN   ORDINARY   DRESS. 


252 


LIVING    LONDON. 


It  is  not  only  an  excel- 
lent business  institution, 
but  its  rooms  are  a 
haven  of  rest  to  many 
a  tired  artist  who  has 
to  remain  in  town 
durinjj  the  day  either 
waiting  to  see  a 
manager  or  an  agent, 
both  of  whom  are  oc- 
casionally given  to 
being  engaged  and  to 
saying  "  Come  again  in 
an  hour  or  two." 

Sometimes  a  theatre 
is  filled  with  a  purely 
professional  audience. 
At  the  Annual  Meeting 
of  the  Royal  General 
Theatrical  Fund  when 
a  prominent  member  of 

the  profession  takes  the  chair,  all  theatrical 
London  is  represented  in  the  vast  audience. 
For  actors  and  actresses,  if  they  are  not  dis- 
tinguished for  thrift,  are  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  generosity.  There  is  no  other  profession 
that  gives  itself  so  willingly  to  charitable  work, 
not  only  for  the  benefit  of  those  in  its  own 
ranks,  but  for  the  poor  and  suffering  generally. 

Their  charities  for  the  benefit  of  their  own 


A   DKKSSI.N'G    ROOM. 


AT   THE    WIG-MAKER  S. 

people  are  many,  for  the  earnings  of  the 
profession  being  precarious,  and  the  favour 
of  the  public  fickle,  it  often  happens  that  the 
willing  worker  has  to  drop  out  of  the  race 
long  before  his  days  of  usefulness  are  over. 

One  of  its  most  admirable  charities  is  the 
Actors'  Orphanage  Fund.  The  object  of  this 
Fund  is  to  provide  for  the  maintenance, 
clothing,  and  education  of  the  orphan  children 
of  actors  and  actresses  and  stage 
managers  \\ho  have  been  in  the 
profession  for  at  least  two  years. 
An  excellent  feature  of  the  Fund 
is  that  outside  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee the  most  perfect  .secrecy  is 
observed  as  to  the  names  of  the 
children  who  are  benefited.  There 
is  no  Home,  but  the  children  are 
placed  with  suitable  guardians,  or 
in  thoroughly  good  schools,  and 
are  liberally  educated.  The  taint 
of  charity  is  never  allowed  to  touch 
them. 

Every  suburb  now  has  its  theatre, 
where  at  a  moderate  price  the 
inhabitants  can  see  the  plays  that 
have  been  successes  during  the 
preceding  season  at  the  leading 
houses,  and  many  which  live  for 
years  entirely  on  a  provincial  and 
suburban  reputation. 

The    practice  of  these  houses  of 


IN    LONDON    THEATRE-LAND. 


253 


giving  hospitality  to  a  different  company 
every  week  has  brought  into  existence 
theatrical  lodging-houses  in  every  part  of  the 
Metropolis.  Here  the  guests  change  week 
after  week,  and  the  change  always  takes 
place  on  a  Sunday. 

These  theatrical  "  diggings  "  are  known  to 
all  the  travelling  members  of  the  profession, 
and  are  always  situated  within  easy  distance 
of  the  theatre.  A  feature  of  them  is  the 
landlady's    collection    of   photographs    which 


scenery  to  the  singing  of  birds  and  the  soft 
sighing  of  the  breeze. 

Connected  with  and  bound  up  with  Theatre- 
land  are  many  arts  and  industries.  The 
scenes  that  are  painted  to  charm  our  eyes^ 
the  mountains  and  valleys,  the  cottage 
gardens,  the  frowning  battlements,  and 
the  palatial  banqueting  halls,  hang  in 
various  stages  of  completion  in  the  paint- 
ing shops  of  the  scenic  artists,  who  now  live 
frequently  a  considerable  distance  from    the 


AN   OPEN-AIR   PLAY. 


adorn  the  mantelpiece,  the  piano,  and  the 
side  tables.  They  are  mementoes  left  by 
grateful  clients,  who  are  also  given  to  poetry 
and  humour  in  the  landlady's  "  Visitors' 
Book." 

The  old  portable  theatre  with  its  troupe  of 
strolling  players  is  rarely  to  be  found  in 
London  to-day.  Now  and  then  one  is 
pitched  on  the  outskirts,  but  the  day  of  the 
"barn  stormer"  is  past.  High  class  dramatic 
entertainments  are,  however,  occasionally 
given  al  fresco  during  the  summer  months. 
Under  the  trees  at  the  Royal  Botanic  Gardens 
come  now  and  again  the  Pastoral  Players  to 
delight  us  with  A  Midsiiinmer  Night's  Dream 
or    As     You  Like   It,  played    amid    nature's 


theatres.  The  costumiers  and  the  wig-makers 
are  all  highly  important  citizens  of  the  play- 
house world.  Nor  must  the  theatrical  boot- 
maker be  forgotten.  The  wig-maker's  shop 
is  always  suggestive  of  the  world  of  romance. 
In  his  window  we  see  hair  of  impossible 
colour,  beards  that  if  worn  by  an  ordinary 
citizen  would  cause  him  to  be  mobbed, 
the  heads  of  giants,  the  noses  of  wicked 
barons  and  spiteful  sisters,  the  wand  of  the 
fairy,  and  the  property  vegetables  of  the 
clown.  Wellington  Street  is  the  typical 
street  of  the  theatrical  market,  and  here, 
especially  at  pantomime  time,  you  may  study 
the  lighter  side  of  the  theatre  world  to  your 
heart's  content. 


254 


AT  THE  DOG  SHOW  (rOYAL  BOTANIC  GAKDEXSj 


CAT    AND    DOG    LONDON. 

By  FRANCES  SIMPSON. 


BEGGING   FOR   CHARITY, 


N' 


OTHING 
much 
has  been 
written  on 
cats  and 
dogs  in  our 
great  city  ; 
but  how 
sel  d  om,  if 
ever,  we  can 
pass  down 
a  London 
street  by  day 
or  night 
without 
seeing  one  or 
other,  and 
pr  o  bab 1 y 
both,  of 
these  ani- 
mals !  We  have  a  census  of  human  beings 
taken  from  time  to  time,  but  the  task 
of  enumerating  either  dogs  or  cats  in  the 
MetropoHs  has  not  been  attempted.    Licences 


for  dogs  would  fail  to  give  the  figure  by 
several  hundreds  ;  and  as  for  cats,  who  shall 
number  them  ?  It  has  been  stated  on 
authority  that  there  are  four  times  as  many 
cats  as  dogs  in  London. 

The  dog  being  the  nobler  animal,  let  us 
first  glance  at  his  life  in  our  capital.  We 
see  the  pompous  pug,  the  tiny  toy  terrier, 
or  quaint  "Jap"  spaniel  seated  beside  "My 
Lady  "  in  her  carriage  and  pair  as  it  dashes 
through  the  fashionable  streets  or  slowly 
winds  its  course  along  the  Park.  Their  lines 
have  fallen  in  pleasant  places,  yet  their  lives 
are  often  shortened  by  too  luxurious  and 
over  abundant  feeding.  To  lead  the  "  life 
of  a  dog  "  is  usually  suggestive  of  an  unhappy 
career,  but  truly  many  a  human  being  might 
envy  the  lot  of  the  pampered  pet  of  a  high- 
born dame,  whose  yearly  expenditure  in  the 
canine  menage  may  be  counted  by  hundreds. 

There  used  to  be  a  Dogs'  Toilet  Club  at 
the  West-End,  but  this  has  been  done  away 
with.  There  are,  however,  several  professionals 
and  amateurs  of  both  sexes  who  attend  to  the 


CAT    AND    DOG    LONDON. 


255 


toilets  of  fashionable  dogs.  The  clipping  of 
poodles  is  quite  an  art  in  itself,  and  requires 
the  skill  of  an  artist.  Dentistry  forms  an 
important  item  in  the  canine  toilet,  and 
expert  seamstresses  are  employed  in  making 
suitable  and  well-fitting  coats  for  dandy 
dogs.  And  there  is,  of  cour.se,  the  London 
dogs'   doctor. 

Let  us  go  to  a  Dog  Show  at  the  Royal 
Botanic  Gardens.  This  annual  fixture  is 
always  a  very  smart  gathering,  taking  place 
in  the  height  of  the  London  .season.  Some- 
times as  many  as  a  thousand  dogs  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions,  sizes  and  breeds,  are 
entered  for  competition  and  exhibition. 
Similar  shows  are  held  at  the  Crystal  Palace, 
the  Royal  Aquarium,  Earl's  Court,  the  Agri- 
cultural Hall,  and  at  the  Alexandra  Palace. 
Her  Majesty  the  Queen  is  patron  of  the 
Ladies'  Kennel  Association,  under  whose 
rules  many  of  these  shows  are  held. 

Of  late  years  there  has  been  a  surprising 
increase  of  foreign  dogs  introduced  into  our 
midst,  and  very  high  prices  are  asked  and 
obtained  for  Japanese  and  Pekinese  spaniels, 
griffons,  and  schipperkes.  There  are  fashions 
in  dogs  as  in  everything  else,  and  money  is 
literally  no  object  when  some  choice  speci- 
men of  the  canine  tribe  is  desired  by  one  of 
fortune's  favourites. 

So  much  for  the  aristocratic  dogs  of  the 
Upper  Ten. 

Let  us  turn  our  attention  to  their  humbler 
brethren,  some  of  whom  think  themselves 
well  off  if  they  can  pick  up  a  crust  from  the 
gutter  or  a  bone  from  a  dustcart.  It  is  no 
unusual  sight  in  the  London 
streets  to  meet  a  sandwich 
man  leading  a  dog,  and  to 
read  on  the  board  that  valuable 
animals  may  be  purchased  at 
moderate  prices  from  such 
and  such  a  shop.  In  Regent 
Street  the  dealer  plies  his 
trade  carrying  a  tiny  pup 
under  each  arm,  perhaps  an- 
other in  his  pocket.  Leaden- 
hall  Market  provides  dogs  of 
all  sorts,  and  sometimes  such 
good  specimens  are  offered 
at  such  low  prices  as  to  cause 
the  purchaser  to  wonder  where 
they    were    picked    up !     In 


Bethnal  Green  there  are  dog  sellers  and 
buyers,  who  group  themselves  in  certain 
streets  to  carry  on  their  trade.  A  photo- 
graphic illustration  on  p.  256  gives  a  good 
idea  of  an  East-End  crowd  taking  an  interest 
in  the  .sales.  In  all  parts  of  London  there 
are  dog  stealers  and  dog  smugglers,  and  it 
is  a  common  occurrence  for  a  valuable  dog  to 
disappear  and  a  reward  to  be  offered,  followed 
by  a  speedy  reaj^pearance  of  the  precious 
pet,  and  no  questions  asked  ! 

At  the  Dog  Market  in  the  East-End  a 
well-known  figure  is  the  rat  seller.  He 
arrives  every  Sunday  morning  with  scores 
of  rats,  and  people  crowd  round  him  with  rat 
traps  to  be  filled.  We  notice  the  eager  face 
of  the  dog  in  the  man's  hand,  watching  his 
opportunity  and  yearning  to  get  at  the  rats 
which  the  vendor  holds  in  each  hand. 

There  is  a  touch  of  pathos  given  to  the 
beggar  standing  at  the  corner  of  a  street  by 
his  faithful  dog  sitting  patiently  beside  him 
with  a  money-box  slung  round  his  neck. 
It  is  difficult  to  resist  the  silent  appeal  of  the 
dumb  creature,  who  never  attempts  to  move 
from  his  position,  though  he  may  be  cramped 
and  shivering  with  cold.  A  pang  of  pity  is 
added  for  the  blind  man  trusting  himself  to 
be  guided  by  his  clever  dog,  who  steers  his 
sightless  master  in  safety  through  the  crowded 


KAT   SELLER   AT   THE   DOG   MARKET. 


256 


LIVING    LONDON. 


DOG    SELLERS    AND    BUYERS    !\    THE    EAST-END. 


streets.  A  dog  will  run  for  miles  after  a 
London  omnibus  in  or  on  which  his  master 
is  seated.  He  never  seems  to  get  bewildered 
with  the  moving  mass  of  surging  vehicles, 
and  will  be  on  the  spot  when  his  master 
gets  down. 

At  one  or  other  of  the  many  music-halls 
in  London  there  are  generally  some  perform- 
ing dogs  ;  and  we  wonder  as  we  watch  their 
marvellous  antics  whether  kindness  or  cruelty 
has  brought  these  creatures  to  such  a  state 
■of  implicit  obedience  and  perfect  submission. 


The  London   beggar  makes 


use  of  his  dog 


to  extract  .sympathy  and  coins  from  passers- 
by.  Dogs  are  also  frecjuently  used  as  beggars 
for  various  charities.  There  was  a  brigade 
of  begging  dogs  organised  for  the  sufferers 
in  the  South  y\frican  war,  and  large  sums 
were  collected  in  the  streets  and  at  entertain- 
ments, shows,  and  bazaars.  At  Paddington 
Station  there  was  for  some  years  a  dog  called 
"  Tim,"  and  royal  personages  now  and  then 
placed  a  gold  coin  in  Tim's  basket.  This 
animal  collected  close  upon  ;^  1,000  for  the 
widows  and  orphans  of  the  Great  Western 
Railway  employes. 

At  Waterloo  "  London  Jack's "  effigy  is 
exhibited  in  a  glass  ca.se,  and  a  brass  plate 
records  his  deeds  in  the  name  of  charity. 
There  is  al.so  a  money-box  into  which  the 
charitable  are  invited  to  drop  a  coin,  and  a 
notice    on   a   brass    plate    announcing    that 


contributions  will  be  placed  to  the  credit  of 
the  decea.sed  dog  and  the  Orphanage  Fund. 
Another  dog  has  been  appointed  to  carry  on 
Jack's  work.  He  lives  at  Vauxhall,  and 
comes  up  to  the  busy  London  terminus  on 
state  occasions  and  race  days.  The  firemen 
of  London  have  their  Brigade  dog,  who 
takes  part  in  the  e.xciting  scenes  of  con- 
flagrations, and  has  been  known  to  assist  in 
the  work  of  rescue.  The  police  force  had 
also  a  fox  terrier  for  some  time,  who  was 
a  sort  of  daughter  of  the  regiment. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Battersea  Home 
for  Lost  Dogs,  where  every  year  about 
22,000  poor  wanderers  are  received  ?  These 
are  generally  brought  by  the  police,  who  are 
enabled  under  Act  of  Parliament  to  take 
froin  the  streets  those  dogs  which  are 
apparently  ownerless.  All  animals  are  care- 
fully examined  on  entering  the  Home,  and 
should  any  be  affected  with  contagious 
disease  they  are  forthwith  sent  to  the  con- 
demned cell.  If  seriously  injured  they  are 
destroyed  at  once.  At  stated  hours  the 
Home  is  open  for  receiving  visitors,  restoring 
or  selling  dogs.  Our  photographic  illustration 
on  p.  257  was  taken  at  a  time  when  visitors 
were  searching  for  their  lost  pets.  The 
wonderful  instinct  of  these  creatures  is  often 
shown  by  the  instant  recognition  of  their 
ma.ster  or  mistress,  and  no  better  proof  can 
be  needed  bv  the  authorities  as  to  the  legal 


CAT    AND    DOG    LONDON. 


257 


CLAIMING   A    LOST   DOG   AT   THE   BATTERSEA    HOME 


claim  of  the  rightful  owner.  Sir  Benjamin 
Richardson's  improved  lethal  chamber  is 
used  to  dispose  of  valueless  animals  by  means 
of  a  painless  death,  and  the  dead  bodies  are 
consumed  in  a  crematorium  erected  at  great 
cost  on  the  premises  at  Battersea.  The 
number  of  dogs  that  enter  the  chamber  of 
death  every  week  averages  between  three 
and  four  hundred. 

Comparatively  few  Londoners  know  of  the 
Dogs'    Cemetery    hidden    away    in    a   quiet 
corner  of  Hyde  Park,  near  the  Victoria  Gate 
entrance.      This    burying   ground    is    not    a 
public  one,  and  does  not  belong  to  anybody 
in  particular.     Dwellers  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Bayswater  have  been  allowed  from  time  to 
time  to  bury  their  dead  pets  here ;   but  the 
space  is   now   completely  filled   up,  and    the 
custodian  has   to  refuse   further  applications 
for  interments.       The    graves  in   this  canine 
necropolis     number     about     three     hundred. 
The      headstones     are    mostly    of     uniform 
pattern.      There  is  one  Ionic  cross  and  a 
broken  column.     Fresh   gathered  blossoms 
mark  the  spot  of  the  more  recently  buried 
pets,  all  the  graves  are  nicely  planted  with 
flowers,    and    many    have   short    but    very 
touching  inscriptions  telling  of  a  lost  one 
mourned.     How  full  of  suggestion  are  the 
following  : — 

"  Sleep  on,  dear  little  faithful  heart. — May,  1901." 
33 


"  Two  little  veterans, 

Bob  and  Jack." 

"  Could  love  have  saved 
Thou  hadst  not  died." 

"  In  ever  loving  memory 
of  Uttle  Nellie." 

"  Could  I  think  we'd 
meet  again 

It  would  lessen  half  my 
pain." 

The  short  inscription, 

"  Fritz,  a  martyr," 

makes  us  wonder  how 
the  poor  creature  met 
his  death.  To  give 
dogs  this  decent  burial 
seems  a  fitting  tribute 
to  their  loving  faith- 
fulness. They  are  such 
a  short  time  with  us, 
and  we  hardly  know 
and  feel  their  worth  before  the  cruel  hand 
of  death  snatches  them  away.  In  St. 
Pancras  Cemetery  at  Finchley  there  is  a 
monument  raised  by  the  dogs  of  London 
to  the  memory  of  William  French,  who  lost 
his  life  in  saving  Mr.  George  R.  Sims'  little 
Yorkshire  terrier  from  drowning. 

So  much  for  the  dogs.  Let  us  briefly 
consider  the  cats  of  London  ;  and  in  doing  so 
our  thoughts  naturally  turn  towards  those 
poor  pussies  who  frequent  the  garden  walls 
and  roof  tops,   and  who   are   oftener   heard 


THE    FIREMEN  S   DOG. 


25S 


LIVING    LONDON. 


than  seen  during 
the  hours  of  dark- 
ness. All  the  year 
round  there  are 
poor  stray  cats 
wandering  about 
the  London 
streets,  but  during 
the  summer  season 
the  number  of 
forlorn,  frightened, 
and  forsaken  ani- 
mals to  be  seen 
is  really  piteous. 
Their  owners  have 
gone  to  enjoy 
themselves  on  the 
Continent  or  brace 
themselves  at  the 
seaside.  They  close  their  houses  ;  and  if 
they  give  a  thought  to  their  puss,  it  is  that 
she  will  pick  up  something  or  that  the  neigh- 
bours will  look  after  her.  Away  they  go, 
and   the   poor  cat   is   left   behind  to   get  her 


THE   DOGS     CE.METEKY 
(HYDE    PARK). 


SELECTING    A    I'ET    AT    A    CATS     HOME. 


living  as  best  she  can.  Some  householders 
make  provision  for  the  cats'  meat  man  to  call 
and  put  a  stick  of  meat  through  the  letter- 
box. These  men  are  frequently  generous  to 
stray  dogs  and  cats,  flinging  them  odd  pieces, 
but  one  has  been  known  to  thrust  an 
empty  stick  through,  and  thus  deceive 
the  purchaser  and  rob  poor  puss  of  her 
meal. 

It  is  a  mercy  that  there  are  institutions 
in  London  such  as  the  Gordon  Home 
for  Lost  Cats  and  the  Camden  Town 
Home.  The  excellent  institution  started 
by  Mrs.  Gordon  at  Shepherd's  Bush,  and 
now  removed  to  Argyle  Road,  Hammer- 
smith, was  the  first  organised  attempt  to 
deal  with  the  question  of  stray  cats  in 
London.  Its  chief  object  is  to  find  an 
immediate  refuge  for  the  poor  wanderers, 
and  to  put  an  end  to  their  misery  by  the 
sleep  of  death.  It  is  a  pathetic  sight  to 
visit  one  of  these  homes,  and  to  see  the 
deplorable  condition  of  some  of  the 
animals  brought  in  from  the  streets. 
There  are,  however,  from  time  to  time, 
really  nice  specimens  to  be  found  at 
Gordon  Cottage.  The  accompanying 
photographic  illustration  was  taken 
during  visiting  hours,  when  ladies 
desirous  of  securing  pretty  pets  can 
search  amongst  the  strays. 

At  the  Camden  Town  Home,  started 
in  1896,  the  number  of  cats  received 
during  the    first  five  years  amounted   to 


CAT  AND  DOG  LONDON. 


259 


the  huge  total  of  33,635  !  These  figures 
speak  for  themselves,  and  all  honour  is  due 
to  those  kind  ladies  who  have  given  their 
time  and  energies  to  such  a  truly  noble  work 
of  charity.  A  cart  from  this  institution  goes 
round  collecting  the  waifs  and  strays,  and 
will  call  by  arrangement  at  any  house.  No 
fee  is  charged  if  the  owner  is  poor.  All 
injured  cats  are  destroyed  at  once,  whether 
strays  or  otherwise.  To  lovers  of  cats  such 
an  attempt  to  alleviate  their  sufferings  must 
appeal  very  strongly  ;  and  even  those  who 
have  an  instinctive  dislike  to  these  harmless 


societies ;  and  several  shows  are  held  in 
London  every  year.  At  these  some  of  the 
choicest  specimens  and  best  bred  cats  are 
exhibited,  such  as  Persian,  Siamese,  Manx, 
and  Russian.  Cats,  however,  are  not  seen  at 
their  best  in  the  pen  ;  still  less  do  they  show 
to  advantage  when  carried  into  the  ring  to 
be  judged,  as  depicted  in  the  reproduction 
below  of  a  photograph  which  was  taken 
at  the  Royal  Botanic  Gardens  Show.  Notice 
the  only  cat  who  is  standing  on  his  legs.  The 
judge  awarded  first  prize  to  him,  as  the 
others  positively  declined  to  do  anything  but 


uv*^-^ 

^^^ 

|HiB|rr^>-f« 

gP^^^  ^  i_^  *AE3^^^^^ 

<H 

^t^^ 

^^^^Vn^ 

N^p 

,^r      *         ii^R'^^^^ 

4\m 

^^H'^J^^^Hn 

^Et^^T-mB  ,W   iil^P 

r^ 

m 

^ 

Pi 

i 

Bh 

"^ 

HHHttW^^^^^^v^^^l 

Ke^ 

rhDiO!  B,  LandoT.  Sn'inj.    if. 


JUDGING    CATS   AT    THE    ROYAL    BOTANIC    GARDENS    SHOW. 


creatures  cannot  fail  to  see  the  very  great 
utility  to  the  public  at  large  in  clearing  our 
London  streets,  squares,  parks,  avenues,  and 
empty  houses,  where  a  poor  friendless  animal 
hides  in  terror  and  misery. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  point  out  that 
there  are  cats  and  cats.  Until  recent  years 
Pussy  was  regarded  as  merely  an  animal 
supplied  by  Providence  for  the  destruction 
of  rats  and  mice.  The  common  backyard 
cat  and  the  perturber  of  our  midnight  hours 
no  better  represents  the  well-bred  puss  than 
the  pariah  cur  of  Eastern  cities  represents 
the  domestic  dog.  The  cat  fancy  is  making 
great  strides,  and  is  patronised  by  a  large 
section  of  fashionable  people,  mostly  ladies. 
There    are    two    cat    clubs,    with    specialist 


crouch  on  their  stomachs  !  At  a  cat  show 
held  at  Westminster  in  1900  a  cat  —  of 
which  we  also  give  a  picture — earned  about 
;^iO  for  the  Transvaal  War  Fund  by  stand- 
ing on  her  hind  legs  begging  and  saluting 
for  Queen  Victoria.  There  have  been  clever 
performing  cats  at  some  of  the  London  en- 
tertainments. One  of  their  trainers  asserted 
that  it  took  many  years  of  patience  and 
perseverance  to  arrive  at  a  satisfactory  result 
as  regards  teaching  a  cat  to  do  any  tricks. 

What  an  air  of  homeliness  is  imparted  to 
a  house  by  a  large,  sleek  fireside  cat,  and  for 
a  drawing-room  pet  nothing  is  more  suitable 
than  a  fluffy  Persian  puss  reclining  on  the 
hearth-rug.  It  is  true  that  a  London  house 
or  flat  is  not  best  suited    for  cats,  for  they 


26o 


LIVING    LONDON. 


love  to  have  a  garden  to  run  into  at  will.  It 
does  not  answer  to  allow  a  \aluable  Persian 
cat  to  stray  outside  on  the  London  pavement, 
where  her  beaut)-  inay  not  only  attract  but 
tempt  the  passers-by.  After  the  last  census 
the  following  statement  appeared  in  the 
press  : — "  A  census  enumerator  in  going  over 
a  return  paper  found  that  the  household 
cat  had  been  included  as  a  member  of 
the  famil)-.  It  was  described  as  'Jim,'  the 
relationship  to  the  head  of  the  family  being 
'  lodger.'  The  entry  then  stated  that  he 
was  of  the  male  sex,  single,  aged  one  last 
birthday.  His  occupation  was  also  given — 
'  mouse-catcher,  worker  on  his  own  account.'  " 

The  cats'  meat  man  is  a  familiar  figure  in 
the  London  streets,  as  he  hurries  along  with 
his  cart,  his  barrow,  or  his  basket  filled  with 
slices  of  horse-flesh  run  on  small  wooden 
sticks.  His  nasal  call  of  "  Meat,  meat !  "  is 
answered  by  a  rush  of  hungry  cats  who 
follow  him  for  some  distance,  hoping  to 
touch  his  heart,  and  by  persistent  mewing 
to  get  a  bit  of  meat  thrown  to  them. 

Amongst   the   dogs'  graves    in   the    Hyde 


Park  cemetery  there  are  two  headstones 
showing  that  pet  cats  have  also  found  a 
resting  place  in  that  quiet  corner.  One 
inscription  reads  thus  : — 

"In   Memoriam 
My  dear  little  cat    Chilla. 
Poisoned  July  31st,  1895." 

And  the  other : — 

"  Our  darling  Coodey, 
A  faithful,  loving  cat.' 

If  dogs  are  the  friends  of  mankind,  their 
companions  in  their  walks  and  partners  in 
their  pleasures,  cats  may  be  considered  the 
special  pets  and  chosen  allies  of  womanhood. 
Londoners,  for  the  most  part,  lead  a  life  of 
high  pressure,  and  have  but  little  leisure  time 
to  consider  the  cats  and  dogs  that  inhabit 
their  great  city  ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  busiest 
would  miss  the  dear  animals  from  their  midst. 
So  whilst  they  are  with  us  and  we  with  them, 

let  us — 

"  Do  the  work   that's  nearest, 
Tho'  it's  dull  at  whiles, 
Helping  when  we  meet  them 
Lame  dogs  over  stiles." 


'MEAT,    MEAT 


I  " 


26 1 


THE   AFTER-HOURS   MARKET   IN    THE   STREETS. 


THE    LONDON    STOCK    EXCHANtiE. 

By  GODEFROI  DREW  INGALL,  F.I.S. 


I 


F  you  desire 
to  view  the 
"House  " 


during   business 


hours  and  see 
some  of  its 
methods  of 
working  you 
will  have  to  en- 
counter insuper- 
able difficulties. 
No  strangers 
are  admitted 
within  its  sacred 
precincts.  But 
we  are  provided 
with  the  i  n - 
visible  cloaks  of 
Fairyland,  and 
so  we  enter  boldly  and   unchallenged. 

Approaching  the  Capel  Court  door  we  find 
one  of  the  "  waiters,"  as  the  janitors  are 
termed,  a  stern  and  watchful  sentinel,  attired 
in  gold-bound  hat,  Oxford  blue  coat  and  red 


-"'^^i'R, 


ENTRANXE-WAITKR    IN    BOX. 


facings.  His  duties  are  to  jealously  guard 
against  the  entry  of  unauthorised  persons,  to 
take  charge  of  letters  left  for  members,  and 
of  the  coats,  sticks,  and  umbrellas  of  a  few, 
and  to  pass  on  to  his  colleague  inside  the 
name  of  any  member  or  firm  whose  presence 
is  desired  outside  by  their  clerks  or  clients. 

The  inside  waiter  stands  in  an  elevated 
"  box,"  receives  telegrams  from  the  telegraph 
boys  who  have  special  permission  to  per- 
ambulate the  floor,  and  "  calls  "  the  members 
who  are  required  for  any  purpose.  Needless 
to  say,  the  possession  of  a  sonorous  voice  is  a 
\ery  necessary  qualification.  Each  door  has 
two  waiters,  and  one  or  two  other  boxes  are 
distributed  near  the  centre  of  the  building, 
as  the  area  is  so  great  that  during  busy  times 
the  most  stentorian  voice  could  not  be  heard 
across  it. 

It  is  popularly  supposed  that  any  stranger 
who  may  by  chance  elude  the  vigilance  of  the 
waiters  is  bonneted,  and  generally  rudely 
treated  by  the  members.  Such  is  not  the 
case.      What  happens  is,  that    any   member 


262 


LIVING    LONDON. 


"BONNETING       A   STRANGER. 

observing  a  stranger  calls  out  "  Waiter ! 
1400;"  and  that  official  takes  possession  of 
the  intruder,  informs  him  the  place  is  private, 
and  requests  that  he  will  accompany  him  to 
the  door.  The  origin  of  the  cry  "  1400"  is  lost 
in  obscurity,  but  it  is  believed  that  one  }'ear 
the  members  numbered  1399,  and  with  their 
usual  witty  grasp  of  such  facts  they  named 
the  next  stranger  the  even  century.  In 
earlier  times,  instances  have  sometimes  oc- 
curred of  slight  practical  joking  with  an 
outsider,  but  the  good  sense  of  the  members 
discountenances  it  now.  On  only  two  occa- 
sions has  any  violence  been  done  in  the 
recollection  of  the  writer.  In  the  first  a 
foreigner  appeared  and  refused  to  go,  where- 
upon a  number  of  members  surrounded  him, 
knocked  off  his  hat,  pulled  his  coat  tails, 
hustled  him,  would  not  let  the  waiter  take 
him  for  a  few  minutes,  chaffed  him,  and  made 
him  so  furious  that  he  challenged  to  a  duel 
a  perfectly  inoffensive  member  standing  by. 
The  .second  was  on  the  occasion  of  bringing 
Captain  Webb  into  the  "  House,"  accompanied 
by  a  policeman.  The  dignity  of  the  members 
was  hurt,  and  they  bonneted  the  officer,  tore 
his  clothes,  took  his  baton,  rushed  him  right 
across  the  floor,  and  fired  him  out  of  the  door 
like  a  cannon  ball — returning  to  complete 
the  ceremony  of  honouring  Captain  Webb. 


Each  market  has  its  own 
particular  position.  To  name 
them  approximately  in  the 
order  of  their  age,  they  are, 
after  Consols,  the  Railway, 
Foreign,  Colonial,  Bank, 
Miscellaneous,  American  (or 
"  Yankee  "),  South  African  (or 
"Kaffir"),  West  Australian 
(or  "  Westralian "),  and  the 
We.st  African  (or  "Jungle"). 
It  will  be  noticed  that  several 
of  the.se  have  nicknames, 
commonly  applied  also  to 
the  various  stocks  and  shares 
dealt  in  ;  for  instance,  the 
first  British  Loan  issued  after 
the  opening  of  the  South  African  War  was 
cnown  as  "  Khaki." 

From  about  10  to  11  a.m.  the  members 
assemble,  according  to  whether  there  is  a 
"  boom  "  going  on,  or  a  dearth  of  business. 
Eleven  is  the  official  hour  of  opening,  and  is 
announced  by  a  waiter  springing  an  ancient 
watchman's  rattle.  In  exciting  times,  such 
as  those  during  which  a  crisis  was  reached 
on  the  last  Saturday  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  those  subsequently  caused  by 
the  New  York  financial  troubles,  business  has 
been  commenced  in  the  street  at  a  very  early 
hour  before  the  "  House  "  was  open. 

Three  p.m.  is  the  official  time  for  closing  ; 
the  doors  are  closed  at  4  p.m.  At  3.55  p.m. 
the  waiters  announce  the  fact  that  the 
closing  hour  is  approaching.  (On  settle- 
ment days  the  doors  are  kept  open  half-an- 
hour  later.)  Business  is  then  resumed  in  the 
street  (almost  always  in  Yankees,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  New  York  cannot  get  into  cable 
touch  with  London  till  about  2.52  p.m.), 
and  there  is  a  large  amount  of  "  arbitrage " 
business  to  be  completed  between  Berlin, 
Amsterdam,  London,  and  New  York,  which 
naturally  centres  in  London.  Business  in 
Kaffir,  Westralian,  and  other  markets  also 
takes  place  in  the  street  when  there  is  any 
particular  cause. 

The  theory  of  Stock  Exchange  business  is, 
that  it  is  conducted  inside  by  two  classes — 
the  broker  and  the  jobber.  The  first  receives 
his  orders  from  the  public,  and  is  supposed  to 
execute  them  with  the  jobber  (who  enters 
into  an  agreement  with  the  broker  on  behalf 


THE  LONDON  STOCK  EXCHANGE. 


263 


THROGMORTON    STREET   ENTRANCE    ON    SETTLING   DAY. 


of  his  client)  to  pay  him  for  stock  or  dehver 
it  to  him  at  a  fixed  price  and  on  a  fixed  date. 
The  jobber  remains   in   the  "House" 
during   the  day.     Some    brokers  pass 
frequently  between  their  offices  and  the 
market,  others  remain  in  the  Exchange 
and  have  orders  sent  to  them,  either 
by    clerk     or    telegrams     from    other 
exchanges.     Many  of  the  public  think 
the     jobber    an     unnecessary    middle 
man,  but  without  him  they  would  find 
it  very  difficult   to  deal,  either  in  in- 
vestment    or     speculative      securities. 
Supposing    I  give   a   broker  an  order 
to  buy  one  thousand  Chartered  Shares, 
he  proceeds  to  a  jobber  and  asks  for 
a    price  without  revealing  whether  he 
is    a    buyer    or    seller.       The    jobber 
"  makes    a    price,"    say    i}{    to    3^^, 
meaning  that  he  will  buy  at  the  lower 
or  sell   at  the  higher  quotation.      My 
broker  says,   "  I    buy    looo,"  and    the 
bargain  is  done  at  2i)4  P^r  share.     The  jobber 
may    not    have    them,    but    his    chance    of 
getting  them   is   favoured   by   the    numerous 
transactions  daily,  either  with    him   or  other 
jobbers.       The    market   price  may  fluctuate 


hours  ;  others 
on.    The  vocal 


against  him  or  move  in  his 
favour.  Did  not  the  jobber 
exist  brokers  would  have  to 
seek  around  among  others. 
As  a  con.sequence,  much 
time  would  be  lost  to  the 
public,  and  the  cost  of 
making  or  changing  invest- 
ments would  be  largely  in- 
creased. 

When  business  is  particu- 
larly active,  or  during  a 
panic,  the  scenes  in  the 
market  are  most  exciting. 
Jobbers  throw  themselves 
into  a  central  melde,  haul 
each  other  out  of  the  margin 
of  the  mass  of  members, 
shout  each  other  down,  bid 
for,  or  offer  stocks  or  shares 
in  the  most  frantic  manner. 
Instances  have  occurred 
where  perspiring  members 
have  had  to  change  their 
collars  and  even  their  shirts 
several  times  during  business 
have  had  clothes  torn,  and  so 
organs,  too,  are  often  seriously 


' MARKING 
PRICES. 


THE 


•HAMMERING"    A    MEMBER. 


THE    LONDON    STOCK    EXCHANGE. 


26s 


affected  for  a  considerable  time.  Such  cries 
are  heard  as  '' %  buy  Eries,"  "^  buy  1 000," 
"^  buy  2000,"  "  }2  buy  Norfolk  Pref," 
etc.,  etc. 

All  bargains  are  checked  by  the  clerks 
ne.xt  morning,  and  considering  the  confusion 
of  a  scene  as  described  above  and  the 
difficulty  of  writing  the  transactions  in  the 
"  jobbing  books "  in  such  a  scrimmage,  re- 
markably few  disputes  take  place,  and  such 
as  do  are  settled,  either  by  halving  profit 
or  loss,  or,  if  that  is  not  possible,  by  en- 
listing the  friendly  services  of  a  brother 
member  as  arbitrator.  As  a  last  resource 
an  appeal  may  be  made  to  the  Committee, 
but  this  course  is  seldom  taken. 

Listen !  A  heavy  and  hollow  resounding 
blow  of  wood  upon  wood.  In  an  instant 
every  face  is  turned  towards  the  central 
waiter's  box  in  each  division  of  the  "  House." 
A  great  "  hush  "  falls  around.  The  waiter  is 
observed  with  a  large  mallet  in  his  hand, 
striking  the  side  of  his  box.  At  the  second 
blow  dead  silence  prevails.  A  third  blow 
falls,  the  waiter  straightens  himself  solemnly, 
removes  his  hat,  and  announces  with  great 
distinctness :  "  Gentlemen,"  (a  pause)  "  Mr. 
Blank  begs  to  inform  the  '  House  '  he  cannot 
comply  with  his  bargains "  (or  in  another 
form,  after  the  pay  day,  "  has  not  complied 
with  his  bargains ").  Before  he  has  finished 
the  formula  there  are  exclamations  of  "  Who  ? 
Who  ? "  The  name  is  repeated  from  member 
to  member  ;  numbers  hurry  off  to  their  offices 
to  see  if  the  defaulter  is  on  their  books,  and, 
if  so,  what  is  the  state  of  his  account.  All 
accounts  are  sent  to  the  official  liquidator 
who  at  once  visits  the  various  markets  in 
which  the  defaulter  had  accounts  open,  and, 
in  consultation  with  his  debtors  and  creditors, 
fixes  the  "  making-up "  prices  at  which  all 
transactions  with  him  are  to  be  closed.  This 
is  called  "  hammering  a  member."  It  has 
led  to  curious  scenes  at  times.  On  one 
occasion  the  waiter  announced  the  name 
of  the  hammering  creditor  instead  of  the 
hammered  debtor.  The  creditor,  a  rather 
excitable  man,  happened  to  be  standing 
by,  and  in  a  second  the  a.stonished  waiter 
found  himself  replaced  by  the  indignant 
member,  who  announced,  "  Gentlemen,  it's  a 
lie ! "  (The  stooping  waiter  shown  in  the 
illustration  opposite  is  engaged  in  watering 
34 


the  floor — an  operation  rendered  necessary 
several  times  a  day  by  the  accumulation  of 
ground-up  dust  from  the  tread  of  so  many 
feet.) 

What  is  this  desk .'  It  is  the  "  marking 
board,"  where  the  actual  prices  of  "  Business 
Done "  are  recorded.  An  examination  of 
the  Official  List  or  the  columns  of  the 
financial  papers  will  show  Opening  and 
Closing  quotations  and  "  Business  Done." 
Every  member  possesses  the  privilege  of  hav- 
ing the  price  of  any  transaction  "  marked " 
upon  the  board.  This  is  a  great  safeguard 
to  clients,  as  they  are  enabled  to  check 
whether  their  contracts  have  been  transacted 
within  reasonable  limit  of  the  closing  quota- 
tion of  the  day. 

A  sudden  mild  e.xcitement  in  the  Consol 
Market.  It  is  the  Government  broker  buy- 
ing for  sinking  fund  purposes.  There  he 
stands  behind  a  small-  desk,  with  a  little 
knot  of  members  below  him  making  signals 
with  their  fingers  in  a  dignified  way,  as 
becomes  such  an  ancient  and  sedate  market. 

Below  the  "  House  "  are  the  Strong  Rooms, 
most  substantially  built  and  containing 
separate  lockers.  The  doors  to  the  rooms 
are  secured  by  sets  of  keys  fi.xing  the  bolts. 
Each  set  is  in  the  custody  of  a  separate 
official,  and  can  only  be  used  when  all  are 
present.  A  special  waiter  guards  the  en- 
trance. Millions  in  value  are  stored  there, 
and  I  have  heard  it  stated  that  it  would 
take  at  least  from  sixty  to  one  hundred 
hours  to  effect  an  entrance. 

The  Share  and  Loan  Department  is  on 
the  ground  floor  at  the  north  end  or 
Yankee  door.  Here  an  immense  quantity  of 
information  is  daily  collected  and  recorded, 
and  is  available  for  reference.  Here  also 
the  stamped  transfer  deeds  are  obtainable. 

The  Clearing  House  is  in  the  basement, 
and  is  a  department  which  makes  present 
day  Stock  Exchange  business  possible  of 
settlement  at  the  necessary  speed.  Before 
its  establishment  each  member  received 
stock  or  transfers  from  the  man  he  im- 
mediately dealt  with — thus,  A  delivered  to 
B,  B  to  C,  and  so  on  to  Z.  Now,  members 
send  in  to  the  Clearing  House  statements 
of  their  accounts  open,  and  that  department 
eliminates  all  intermediaries  and  puts  A  and 
z  into  direct  communication  for  delivery  and 


266 


LIVING    LONDON. 


payment  of  the  approximate  value  of  stock 
or  shares  dehvered.  All  intermediate  accounts 
on  both  sides  are  closed  at  an  official 
"  making  -  up  price,"  and  any  discrepancy 
between  that  and  the  actual  price  is  settled 
on  pay  day  by  a  "  difference  "  cheque.  The 
Clearing  House  staff  generally  work  all 
night  on  two  or  three  nights  during  each 
"  account." 

The  Committee  Rooms  and  Secretarial 
Department  are  on  the  first  floor.  The 
work  of  administration  is  so  enormous  that 
a  committee  or  sub-committee  meet  almost 
daily,  and  a  daily  luncheon  is  provided  for 
the  committeemen — the  only  reward  they  re- 
ceive for  their  labours.  And  reference  to 
luncheon  reminds  us,  by  the  way,  that  in 
Throgmorton  Street  is  "  Mabey's,"  the  well- 
known  chop  house  frequented  by  members 
of  the  "  House  " — an  interior  view  of  which 
is  shown  in  the  photographic  reproduction 
below. 

The'  Stock  Exchange  member  is  not 
always  a  frantic,  yelling  dealer  in  stocks 
and  shares.  There  are  not  infrequently  times 
when  he  has  to  suffer  from  enforced  idle- 
ness, which  he  fills  up  by  play  and  exchange 


of  wit  and  jokes.  On  special  public  occasions, 
too,  the  members  express  their  loyalty  with 
no  uncertain  sound.  On  the  day  when  the 
King  (then  Prince  of  Wales)  visited  the 
"  Hou.se"  to  view  the  new  extension,  printed 
slips  were  distributed  with  "  God  Save  the 
Queen "  and  "  God  Bless  the  Prince  of 
Wales."  His  intention  to  be  present  leaked 
out,  with  the  result  that  an  official  reception 
was  arranged  by  the  Managers,  and  a  dais 
was  erected  with  a  velvet-cushioned  chair, 
to  which  H.R.H.  was  solemnly  conducted 
through  a  lane  of  members.  Several  mem- 
bers of  the  Stock  Exchange  Orchestra 
attended  to  lead.  The  members'  choral 
singing  is  proverbial  for  its  power  and 
harmony.  After  the  first  two  chords  the 
band  was  drowned  in  the  volume  of  sound. 
On  other  occasions  also,  such  as  victories  and 
jubilees,  the  members  spontaneously  sing  the 
"  National  Anthem  "  on  the  rattle  going  at 
1 1   a.m. ;    and  the  effect  is  overwhelming. 

Such  is  the  London  Stock  Exchange — an 
institution  with  sternly  inflexible  rules  of 
self-government,  with  a  world-wide  reputa- 
tion, and  standing  supreme  as  the  financial 
centre  of  the  Empire. 


26/ 


BROWNING   HALL  :    ENTERTAINING   THE   CRIPPLES. 


LONDON'S    SOCIAL    SETTLEMENTS. 

By  HOWARD  ANGUS  KENNEDY. 


THE  wise  men  came  from  the  East;  and 
now,  thank  heaven !  a  few  of  them  are 
going  baclv  there — back  to  the  deserted, 
though  crowded,  East-End  of  London.  In  that 
densely-peopled  wilderness  they  are  settling, 
in  little  colonies,  to  live  helpful  and  simple 
lives  among  the  poor,  not  as  missionaries 
or  as  "  superior  persons,"  but  as  neighbours, 
brothers,  and  fellow-citizens.  A  "  Settle- 
ment "  is  a  veritable  beehive  of  industry ; 
and  these  altruistic  bees,  instead  of  laying 
up  honey  for  themselves,  are  toiling  without 
rest  and  without  reward  to  sweeten  the 
lives  of  others,  and  to  develop  the  neglected 
human  and  social  resources  of  the  Empire's 
heart. 

Come  down  to  Whitechapel  and  see.  You 
think  of  Whitechapel  as  the  prowling  ground 
of  Jack  the  Ripper,  as  a  labyrinth  of  reeking 
slums,  or  a  Ghetto  crowded  with  foreign  Jews 
chaffering  in  Yiddish  over  piles  of  old  clothes. 
Yet  when  you  have  passed  through  the  arched 


entry  of  Toynbee  Hall  you  might  imagine 
yourself  in  the  "  quad  "  of  some  old  college 
at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  There  is  a  feeling 
of  refinement  and  distinction  in  the  very  air. 
In  front,  an  ivy-clad  porch  ;  on  one  hand,  a 
turreted  library  rising  from  its  cloistered 
foundation  ;  on  the  other,  a  dove-cote  and  a 
clock-tower.  The  illusion  is  deepened  when 
you  enter  the  spacious  dining  hall  and  hear 
the  unmistakable  'Varsity  accent  of  the 
diners ;  but  as  you  listen  to  the  talk  you  soon 
discover  that  these  Oxonians  and  Cantabs 
have  become  naturalised  and  enthusiastic 
Londoners — for   London's  sake. 

And  when  the  company  have  separated, 
you  learn  that  three  or  four  have  gone  off 
to  manage  clubs  for  working-men  or  for  the 
"  old  boys "  of  some  neighbouring  Board 
school;  one  is  going  round  arranging  for 
parental  payments  to  the  Children's  Country 
Holida\'  Fund,  and  another  is  presiding  over 
a  conference  on  old  age  pensions,  or  the  water 


268 


LIVING    LONDON 


supply ;  this  one  is  to  give  a  "  University 
Extension  "  lecture,  and  that  one  is  taking  a 
class  of  pupil  teachers  in  his  own  room  ;  while 
a  couple  of  others  have  volunteered  to  patrol 
the  streets — narrow  and  gloomy  like  moun- 
tain gorges,  bounded  on  either  hand  by  the 
forbidding  fronts  of  common  lodging-houses 
— to  investigate  a  complaint  that  the  street 
lighting  is  not  equal  to  the  needs  of  such  a 
doubtful  locality. 

Festoons  of  fairy  lamps  begin  to  twinkle 
and  glow  among  the  creepers  that  beautify 
the  "  quad  "  ;  and  presently  the  people  of  the 
neighbourhood  will  flock  in  to  enjoy  an  open- 
air  concert.  But  not  one  of  the  settlers  is 
thinking  of  his  own  enjoyment.  Nevertheless, 
there  is  not  a  sign  of  boredom  or  discontent 
on  a  single  face.  Evidently,  helping  other 
people  is  an  exhilarating  and  even  a  fas- 
cinating business. 

"  I    shall    have   to   go   out   to   a   Borough 


Council  committee,"  says  our  Settler-guide — 
'•  there  are  two  of  us  on  the  Stepney  Borough 
Council,  and  two  on  the  London  County 
Council,  which  keeps  us  all  pretty  busy — but 
I've  got  time  to  show  you  into  the  Tenants' 
Defence  Association  first."  And  he  leads  the 
way  through  courts  and  corridors  till  we  halt 
at  a  door  placarded  with  an  inscription  in 
Hebrew  and  English. 

Behind  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
sits  a  sharp  yet  benevolent-looking  attorney, 
with  a  venerable  Hebrew  interpreter  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  desk  close  by.  An  old  lady, 
not  unlike  the  Duchess  in  "  Alice,"  stands  in 
front  of  the  table  pouring  forth,  with  tearful 
voice  and  gestures  of  despair,  a  Yiddish  tale 
of  woe.  "  What's  that — what's  that  ?  "  asks 
the  presiding  genius.  "  She  says,"  replies  the 
old  interpreter,  "  that  her  landlord  has  taken 
all  the  doors  off  their  hinges  because  she 
wouldn't  get  out  when  he  wanted  her  to ;  and 


BERMONDSEY    SETTLEMENT  :    A   MAY-DAY    FESTIVAL. 


LONDON'S    SOCIAL    SETTLEMENTS. 


it's  terribly  draughty." 
The  forceful  landlord's 
name  and  other  es- 
sential details  are 
gradually  sifted  out 
from  among  the  old 
lady's  voluble  irrele- 
vancies,  and  she  de- 
parts happy, confident 
that  her  wrongs  will 
be  righted.  Her  place 
is  taken  at  once  by 
a  melancholy  young 
man,  from  whose 
Roumanian  tongue 
rolls  off  another  string 
of  grievances.  "  He's 
a  '  greener,'  "  the  in- 
terpreter explains, 
condensing  as  he 
translates:  "only  been 
three  weeks  in  En<r- 


CANNING   TOWN    WOME.n's   SETTLEMENT  :    PHYSICAL   DRILL. 


land :  thought  he  had  left  all  the  cheats 
behind  him  in  Roumania,  and  finds  he's 
mistaken.  He  gave  a  certain  man  of  our 
landlord's  acquaintance  los.  '  key-money '  for 
a  house  that's  supposed  to  be  going  to  be 
empty,  and  that  man's  been  taking  '  key- 
money  '  for  the  same  house  from  I  don't 
know  how  many  other  poor  people." 

One  of  these  owners  of  slum  property 
actually  took  the  roof  off  so  as  to  freeze  out, 
or  flood  out,  his  unfortunate  tenant — who, 
invoking  the  authority  of  Toynbee  Hall,  got 
substantial  compensation  for  this  undeniable 
"  disturbance."  In,  a  still  more  celebrated 
case  this  beneficent  Association  obtained  a 
decision  from  the  High  Court  that  the 
"  bedding "  which  is  beyond  the  landlord's 
power  to  seize  for  rent  includes  the  bed- 
stead—a judgment  for  which  thousands  of 
unlucky  folk  all  over  the  land  have  cause  to 
bless  the  name  of  Toynbee. 

"  Before  you  leave  Whitechapel,"  says  our 
guide,  "  you  really  must  pay  a  visit  to  Balliol 
House " — and  away  he  hurries  us  over  an 
asphalt  court,  where  a  company  of  the  Boys' 
Brigade  is  at  drill,  to  what  at  first  you  take 
for  a  block  of  "dwellings."  And  .so  it  is, 
but  the  dwellers,  whom  you  find  enjoying  a 
sociable  evening  in  the  big  "common  room," 
are  young  professional  men,  medical  students, 
schoolmasters,  clerks,  and  so  forth,  who  form 


a  charming  little  co-operative  commonwealth 
under  the  mild  sway  of  an  unprofessional 
"  Dean,"  instead  of  living  isolated  lives  in 
lodgings.  As  we  ascend  a  long  stone  stair 
the  guide  stops  short  on  a  landing.  "If  you 
had  come  here  one  night  before  the  place 
was  bought  and  christened,  you  might  have 
stumbled  over  the  mutilated  corpse  of  a 
murdered  woman.  On  this  very  stone  one 
of  Jack  the  Ripper's  victims  was  done  to 
death." 

The  Settlement  for  which  the  ground  was 
broken  by  Canon  Barnett's  friends  from 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  was  named  after 
Arnold  Toynbee,  a  still  earlier  pioneer  in 
the  way  of  living  among  the  poor — a  young 
man  who  died  on  the  threshold  of  a  life  full 
of  promise.  And  Toynbee  Hall  had  not 
long  been  founded  when  another  group  of 
Oxonians,  invited  by  Bishop  Walsham  How, 
arrived  in  the  once  rural  suburb  of  Bethnal 
Green,  a  mile  or  so  farther  east.  Their  aim 
was  to  work  on  Toynbee  lines,  but  under 
the  flag  of  the  Church  of  England.  In  an 
old  disused  schoolroom  the  adventurous  new- 
comers laid  the  foundations  of  the  famous 
Oxford  Hou.se,  under  the  guidance  first  of 
Mr.  Adderley  and  then  of  Mr.  Henson. 

The  Settlement  prospered.  The  natives, 
who  had  been  at  first  mistrustful  of  the 
invading  "  toffs,"  were  gradually  won  over  by 


270 


LIVING    LONDON. 


the  enthusiastic  brotherliness  of  the  new- 
comers. A  parson  who  arrived  later  on  to 
head  the  Httle  colony  had  a  daring  way  of 
sallying  into  Victoria  Park  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon  and  taking  the  stump  in  opposition 
to  the  loud-mouthed  missionaries  of  Secu- 
larism, opposing  them,  too,  with  such  a  genial 
humour  and  wealth  of  repartee  that  the  crowd 
first  laughed  and  then  believed.  He  is  gone 
now — gone  to  be  Bishop  of  London,  with  a 
"  kerridge "  that  is  always  ready  to  give  a 
lift  to  any  of  his  old  East-End  friends  who 
dare  to  hail  his  lordship  on  his  episcopal 
beat  He  is  gone,  but  his  work  goes  on. 
Drop  in  with  me  now  to  the  University  Club 
— an  embodiment  of  the  "  cut-out "  principle, 
cutting  out  the  public-house  by  energetic 
and  common-sense  competition.  The  air  is 
musical  with  the  cannoning  of  billiard  balls  ; 
but  the  fragrance  of  tobacco  smoke  is 
unmixed  with  the  odours  of  alcohol.  You 
will  find  such  clubs  all  over  London  now — 
independent  in  management,  but  united  in 
a  federation  with  Oxford  House  for  head- 
quarters. 

East  and  ever  more  east  we  go,  till  we 
reach  the  edge  of  the  London  world.  We 
are  now  in  that  extraordinary  mushroom 
municipality  called  West  Ham,  with  its  vast 
population  of  dockers,  factory  hands,  and 
toilers  in  every  grade  of  poverty,  dragging 
out  their  lives  on  a  brick-covered  Essex 
swamp,  where  herons  nested  thirty  years  ago. 
Here,  too,  it  was  an  Oxonian  voice  that  first 
rai-sed  the  cry,  "  To  the  rescue ! "  I  remember, 
about  the  year  1890,  climbing  to  the  top  of 
a  certain  house  in  the  dreary  Barking  Road 
and  discovering  a  couple  of  Congregational 
students  from  Mansfield  College  camping  out 
in  an  upper  room,  boiling  their  own  tea  and 
toasting  their  own  bread.  The  little  colony 
has  done  great  things.  All  over  Canning 
Town  the  colonists  are  known  as  the  friends 
of  the  people.  It  was  here  that  the  "  Poor 
Man's  Lawyer "  first  started  operations.  A 
great  peacemaker  is  he,  smoothing  over  dis- 
agreements between  husband  and  wife,  get- 
ting compensation  from  employers  by  a  little 
friendly  letter-writing,  and  in  a  hundred  ways 
oiling  the  wheels  of  .society.  "  If  Christianity 
means  a  lawyer  wot  don't  charge  nuthin', 
there's  summat  in  it,"  is  the  judgment  of  the 
clients. 


A  little  way  from  headquarters  we  enter — a 
common  lodging-house,  I  was  going  to  say, 
only  this  is  a  very  uncommon  lodging-house. 
"  Full  up,"  the  keeper  is  saying  to  a  very  dirty 
applicant ;  "  and  if  we  were  empty  we  wouldn't 
accept  the  honour  of  your  company,  not  till 
you  learn  better  manners.  Why,"  turning  to 
the  visitors,  "  that  chap  came  in  here  the 
other  night  and  went  to  bed  in  his  boots. 
He's  an  '  undesirable '  if  there  ever  was  one. 
Our  company  is  not  what  you  might  call 
select — not  the  '  submerged  tenth,'  but  the 
'  submerged  eleventh  ' — but  we  draw  the  line 
at  a  fellow  that  sleeps  in  his  boots." 

Mansfield  House,  by  the  way,  has  at 
Canning  Town  a  sister  colony,  in  which  all 
the  Settlers  belong  to  what  we  men  are  pleased 
to  call  the  weaker  sex.  And  such  workers 
they  are,  too  !  They  have  a  regular  hospital 
and  dispensary,  for  one  thing,  for  their  poor 
sick  neighbours.  But  we  have  only  time 
to  look  in  at  their  Factory  Girls'  Club. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  these  are  factory 
girls  ? "  Yes,  just  the  same  class  you  saw 
on  Hampstead  Heath  last  Bank  Holiday, 
flaunting  in  miraculous  hats  and  dresses  as 
"  loud  "  as  their  tongues.  Yet  here  they  are 
drilling  in  sober  uniforms  of  dark  blue  serge, 
with  a  regularity  and  discipline  of  which  you 
probably  thought  'Arriet  incapable. 

Hooliganism,  which  is  a  disease  affecting 
both  sexes,  has  met  a  deadly  foe  in  the 
little  army  of  adventurous  and  imperturbable 
Settlers,  who  lay  hold  of  the  young  life  run- 
ning wild  in  the  streets,  and  make  it  feel 
that  there  is  a  greater  joy  in  less  noxious 
activities.  "  Members  are  requested  not  to 
touch  the  ceiling  with  their  feet"  is  the 
rather  startling  notice  confronting  us  as  we 
enter  the  gymnasium  of  the  Wesleyan  Settle- 
ment in  Bermondsey.  Short  of  kicking  down 
the  plaster  in  some  acrobatic  flight,  here  are 
innumerable  ways  of  letting  off  youthful 
steam,  such  as  fencing,  footballing,  cricketing, 
or  enlisting  as  a  modern  Knight  Templar 
in  the  Boys'  Brigade.  Not  only  the  rough- 
ness, but  the  ugliness,  of  London  life  is  being 
gradually  dispelled  wherever  one  of  these 
wonderful  little  colonies  has  been  planted. 
Here  in  Bermond.sey,  for  instance — on  the 
south  side  of  the  Thames,  opposite  Wapping 
— we  might  find  a  sight  to  gladden  the 
eyes    in     the     merry    month     of     May  :     a 


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LIBRAKY 


^V> 


272 


LIVING    LONDOX. 


genuine  May-day  festival  in  the  Settlement 
court,  the  lassies  tripping  it  merrily  round  the 
may-pole,  to  the  unbounded  delight  of  an 
audience  crowding  the  very  roofs  around. 
For  old  and  young  alike,  the  Settlement  is  a 
radiating  centre  of  interest  and  good  cheer. 

And  who  can  tell  what  Browning  Hall  is 
to  Walworth  —  Walworth,  where  human 
beings  crowd  like  herrings  in  a  barrel,  a 
thousand  to  the  acre?  That  transformed 
old  chapel,  where  Browning's  father  and 
mother  taught  in  the  Sunday  school  and  the 
great  poet  himself  was  baptised,  you  will  find 
thronged  on  a  Tuesday  afternoon  with  the 
wives  of  the  costerfolk  and  other  poor  women 
of  the  once  well-to-do  suburb.  It  is  their 
club — their  only  relief,  except  the  public- 
house,  from  the  stuffy  little  rooms  that  they 
have  to  call  "  home."  Nor  are  the  children 
forgotten  ;  and  even  the  little  cripples  from 
the  surrounding  neighbourhood  are  brought 
in  once  a  week  to  enjoy  a  happy  hour  or 
two  devoted  to  needlework,  fret-carving,  and 
many  a  game  beloved  by  girls  and  boys. 
Often,  too,  in  the  summer  a  "  cripples'  garden 
party  "  is  held  in  the  oasis  where  generations 
of  bye-gone  chapel-goers  lie  buried. 

We  must  take  one  peep,  before  turning  our 
faces  northward  again,  at  a  vigorous  colony 
of  University  Settlers  in  Cambridge  House, 
Camberwell  Road.  These  men  have  settled 
down  to  the  every-day  duties  of  neighbour- 
liness, as  well  as  to  the  semi-public  duty  of 
"running"  clubs  and  .societies.     And  just  as 


the  owner  of  a  palace  invites  his  friends  to  an 
al  fresco  entertainment  in  his  noble  grounos, 
so,  in  summer,  you  may  see,  if  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  be  invited,  these  young  Cambridge 
men  doing ,  the  honours  of  their  beautiful 
little  back  garden  to  as  many  guests  as  they 
can  get  in  from  the  mean  streets  all  round 
their  colony. 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Whitechapel  or 
Walworth  to  Bloomsbury,  where  we  are  to 
take  our  last  glimpse  of  Settlement  life.  But 
Bloomsbury  is  no  longer  a  preserve  of  staid 
middle-class  respectability,  and  the  Passmore 
Edwards'  Settlement  is  an\'thing  but  a  super- 
fluity in  Tavistock  Square.  The  building 
is  a  picture  in  itself — art  could  no  further  go 
— but  you  should  see  the  living  pictures 
inside  !  Here  are  potential  Hooligans  sitting 
clean  and  in  their  right  mind,  at  tea  with 
the  refined  and  refining  colonists.  Here  are 
young  men  and  women  enjoying  a  social 
evening  and  footing  it  together  as  Besant 
would  have  had  his  East-Enders  do  at  the 
People's  Palace.  Every  morning,  too,  you 
may  see  a  horse-ambulance  drive  up  to  the 
door  with  a  load  of  handicapped  humanity 
for  the  cripple  children's  school.  A  pathetic 
scene :  yet  it  is  a  good  picture  to  carry  away 
with  you  as  you  leave  the  last  of  the  Settle- 
ments ;  for  it  is  the  pride  and  joy  of  these 
little  communities  that  they  have  discovered 
how  to  bring  strength  to  the  weakest,  light  to 
the  most  ignorant,  a  lifting  hand  to  those  who 
are  down,  and  hope  to  the  most  forlorn. 


^^^^^t^^m 

ljI^'^o 

L  -                   tmL        Vi  '^1 

^^^^^^B 

^^^^^ 

^^B 

MANSFIELD    HOUSK  : 


'  THP;   POOR    MAN'S   LAWYER." 


273 


BETWEEN  THE   COURSES. 


BEHIND    THE    BLINDS. 

By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 


A  DOCTOR  has  been  compared  to  the 
driver  of  a  hansom — he  knows  his  way 
about  the  streets,  but  he  cannot  tell  you 
what  is  going  on  inside  the  houses.  But 
the  great  life  of  London  is  lived  as  much — 
nay,  it  is  lived  more — behind  the  blinds  of 
the  quiet  houses  than  it  is  in  the  busy 
thoroughfares.  In  the  streets,  except  on 
rare  occasions  and  in  isolated  cases,  we  are 
all  more  or  less  "  supers  "  in  the  great  crowd. 
Our  individuality  is  merged  in  that  of  the 
moving  stream  of  humanity.  Our  joys  and 
our  sorrows  are  concealed  behind  a  mask. 
It  is  only  in  the  house  that  we  take  the 
stage  and  act  out  the  story  in  which  we 
are  intimately  concerned. 

We  have  seen  the  front  doors  ajar  and 
watched  the  little  dramas  of  the  doorstep. 
But  these  have  given  us  but  passing  glimp.ses 
of  the  true  character  of  the  home.  Like 
the  parade  outside  the  booth  at  the  fair, 
these  scenes  have  been  but  a  hint,  a  sug- 
gestion, of  the  performance  that  is  to  take 
place  within. 
35 


In  the  theatre  the  house  has  but  three 
walls.  The  fourth  is  beliind  the  audience. 
It  is  only  by  reason  of  this  architectural 
arrangement  that  we  can  know  what  is  going 
on  inside  the  homes  presented  by  the  play- 
wright. For  us  to-day,  as  we  wander  through 
the  great  city,  that  fourth  wall  must  also  be 
removed  from  its  ordinary  place.  Only  thus' 
can  we  be  privileged  to  become  spectators  of 
the  vie  intime  of  London — the  life  behind 
the  blinds. 

It  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  the 
blinds  are  down  in  this  "  desirable  residence  " 
in  a  fashionable  suburb.  But  there  is  a  light 
in  most  of  the  front  windows,  and  that 
indescribable  air  about  the  place  which 
whispers  to  the  Londoner,  "  Dinner  party." 
The  last  carriage  has  driven  up,  and  the 
guests  are  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  A 
few  minutes'  subdued  conversation  and  dinner 
is  announced.  There  is  a  little  air  of  reserve 
at  first.  English  people  always  require  the 
chill  taken  off  them  when  they  gath2r  together 
without  all  being  intimate  acquaintances. 


274 


LIVING    LONDON. 


/'/'/'~^f 


GOOD-NIGHT 


I  " 


As  course  succeeds  course  the  weather, 
the  Academy — if  it  is  the  season — the  opera, 
a  play  that  has  taken  the  town,  a  book  that 
has  been  criticised  at  length  by  the  news- 
papers, furnish  by  turns  an  excuse  for  the 
people  seated  near  each  other  to  exchange 
remarks.  The  conversation  seldom  becomes 
general,  or  animated.  Now  and  then  a  joke 
from  a  newspaper  or  a  periodical  is  hazarded, 
but  it  rarely  causes  laughter.  It  is  acknow- 
ledged with  a  smile  when  it  is  well  told. 
But  it  frequently  happens  that  the  honoured 
joke  introduced  into  dinner  party  conversa- 
tion is  so  mutilated  by  the  teller  that  it  fails 
to  impress  the  listener  at  all,  especially  if  he 
or  she  has  at  that  moment  been  handed  the 
entree,  and  is  twisting  round  to  secure  the 
fork  and  spoon  gracefully. 

After  the  adjournment  to  the  drawing- 
room,  when  the  men  have  joined  the  ladies, 
everybody  .soon  begins  to  think  of  going, 
and  it  is  not  long  before  some  bold  spirit 
decides  to  be  the  first  to  leave.  The  first 
departure  is  the  signal  for  a  general  but 
dignified  procession  of  good-byes  to  the  host 
and  hostess.  A  few  stragglers  outside  stand 
and  watch  the  carriages  drive  up  to  the  door 


— a  hansom  cab  or  two 
and  a  four-wheeler  hang 
about  on  the  off  chance. 
Soon  after  eleven  the  last 
guest  has  left.  Mamma 
and  the  girls  remain  for  a 
little  while  in  the  drawing- 
room  chatting.  Papa  has 
retired  to  his  den  with  the 
evening  papers.  Soon  after 
midnight  the  lights  on  the 
lower  floors  go  out.  Only 
the  light  from  the  kitchen 
still  illuminates  the  dark 
corners  of  the  area.  To- 
wards one  o'clock  there  is 
a  light  in  the  windows 
near  the  roof  The  servants 
have  gone  to  bed.  The 
suburban  household  sleeps 
behind  the  blinds. 

Here  is  a  deserted  street. 
The  long  white  terrace  of 
houses  looks  almost  ghostly 
in  the  quiet  moonlight. 
The  policeman  comes  along- 
with  the  slow  swinging  tramp  of  the  night 
patrol,  his  lantern  in  his  belt.  He  tries  all 
the  area  gates  and  pushes  the  front  doors. 
One  house  arrests  his  attention.  He  looks 
up,  and  sees  the  light  still  gleaming  behind 
the  blinds  of  a  room  on  the  .second  floor. 
There  is  a  glimmer  of  gas  in  the  hall.  He 
knows  what  is  the  matter,  because  he  has 
seen  that  light  night  after  night,  and  once  or 
twice  he  has  watched  a  gentleman  come  out 
in  the  early  hours  and  run  to  the  cab  stand,, 
and  has  seen  him  return  later  with  a  doctor. 

Behind  the  blinds  lies  a  woman  hovering 
between  life  and  death.  He  wonders  how 
the  lady  is  to-night.  The  shadow  of  more 
than  one  figure  crosses  the  blind,  and  he 
knows  that  there  are  other  watchers  gathered 
round  the  bed  besides  the  trained  nurse  who 
keeps  the  nightly  vigil  as  a  rule.  While  he 
is  lingering  the  door  opens,  and  a  man  comes 
out  hurriedly,  nervously.  The  sympathetic 
policeman  instantly  volunteers  to  go  for  a 
cab.  He  has  seen  the  man's  face  and  read 
the  latest  bulletin.  The  cab  comes  and 
drives  off.  The  policeman  has  heard  the 
direction  given  to  the  cabman  in  a  tearful, 
trembling  voice.     He   knows  what   it  means. 


BEHIND    THE    BLINDS. 


275 


To-morrow  the  blinds  of  the  house  will 
remain  down — a  dead  woman  will  be  lying 
behind  them. 

The  blinds  down  in  a  double-windowed 
room  above  a  shop  in  an  unfashionable 
quarter  of  London.  The  jingling  of  a  piano 
and  the  sound  of  song.  Laughter  ringing 
out  now  and  again,  and  the  passing  of  many 
shadows  across  the  blind.  It  is  the  "Missis's" 
birthday.  Up  in  the  sitting-room  above  the 
shop  the  honest  tradesman  and  his  partner 
for  life  are  entertaining  their  friends  in 
honour  of  the  occasion.  Presently  the  music 
ceases,  but  not  the  merriment.  The  supper 
is  on  the  table — a  good  old-fashioned  English 
supper.  It  is  a  squeeze  to  accommodate  the 
guests,  but  an  engaged  young  couple  gladly 
sit  on  the  sofa  together  and  make  a  table  of 
a  chair.  Presently  "  father "  rises,  glass  in 
hand,  and  says,  "  Many  happy  returns  of  the 
day,  my  dear."  The  company  stands  up  and 
re-echoes  the  wish,  and  somebody  starts 
"  For  she's  a  jolly  good  fellow,"  and  stops 
amid  a  roar  of  laughter.  But  the  company 
quickly  sees  the  humour  of  the  suggestion, 
and  presently  the  chorus  rings  out  right 
heartily,  and  the  passers-by  stop  and  look 
up  at  the  window. 

Later  a  little  crowd  of  half  a  dozen  at  the 
street  door  and  many  handshakings,  and 
cheery  good-nights,  and  kindly  messages. 
A  little  lingering — they  always  linger  at  the 
front  door  after  these  homely  little  parties — 
and  then  good-night  for  the  fourth  and  last 
time,  and  mother  and  father  remain  looking 
out  into  the  night  after  their  departing 
guests.  Then  the  door  closes  and  the  chain 
goes  up,  and  presently  mother  and  father 
are  again  in  the  little  sitting-room  with  the 
remains  of  the  birthday  feast.  And  if  father 
doesn't  put  his  arm  affectionately  round 
mother's  waist  when  they  are  alone  and  kiss 
her  and  say,  "  Well,  my  dear,  it's  been  a  jolly 
evening,  hasn't  it  ? "  I  am  very  much  mis- 
taken. I  am  quite  sure  that  is  what  you 
would  see  if  they  had  not  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  avoid  sitting  down  just  behind 
the  blinds. 

Three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  big 
square  is  wrapped  in  silence.  A  belated 
traveller  looks  out  of  his  hansom  and  sees 
nothing  but  the  drawn  blinds  with  never 
a  light  behind  them.      But  if  he  knew  what 


was  happening  at  No.  13  he  would  give  it 
more  than  a  passing  glance.  For  with 
stealthy  footsteps  two  men  are  creeping 
about  the  silent  house  and  securing  valuable 
plate  and  jewellery.  All  their  plans  have 
been  matured  beforehand.  They  have 
effected  an  entrance  with  consummate  skill 
and  daring,  and  have  gone  straight  to  the 
plate  chest  or  the  safe.  Having  finished 
their  work,  they  are  now  enjoying  a  cold 
collation  and  a  couple  of  bottles  of  wine. 
They  don't  smoke,  because  the  smell  of 
tobacco  is  very  penetrating.  But  they  have 
filled  their  pockets  with  the  excellent 
Havana  cigars  of  their  unconscious  host 
It  is  quite  possible  that  when  they  have 
finished  their  meal  they  will  leave  a  polite 
little  note  thanking  him  for  his  hospitality. 
In  the  burgling  season  half  a  dozen  people 
may  pass  the  house  in  which  the  "  cracks- 
men "  are  at  work,  the  policeman  may  flit 
by  like  a  ghost  in  his  noiseless  boots,  but 
no  living  soul  but  the  operators  themselves 
know  that  to-morrow  all  London  will  be 
ringing  with  what  is  happening  at  that 
moment  behind  the  blinds. 


WATCHING   THE   SHADOWS, 


2/6 


LIVING    LONDON. 


Nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  This  pretty 
little  villa  residence  is  quiet  and  peaceful 
after  the  fashion  of  villa  residences.  The 
postman  goes  up  the  garden  path  with  the 
last  post  and  wakes  the  echoes  with  his 
smart  rat-tat.  Mary  the  housemaid  comes 
to  the  letter  box  and  looks  eagerly  at  the 
three  letters  that  the  postman  has  dropped 
into  it.  There  is  a  shade  of  disappointment 
on  her  pretty  face  when  she  has  glanced  at 
them   all.     There  is  a  letter  for  Master  and 


hearts'  hour,  and   in   many  a  London   home 
Love  reigns  supreme  behind  the  blinds. 

A  humble  little  home  this.  Two  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  outside  a  noisy 
street  in  a  working-class  quarter.  The  blind 
drawn  down  in  the  front  window  is  yellow 
and  dingy,  and  the  feeble  light  of  the  lamp 
within  makes  it  dingier.  The  children  have 
been  undressed  and  put  to  bed,  and  the 
pale-faced  young  mother  sits  straining  her 
eves  over  her  needlework. 


'  MANY    H.-VPPY    RETURNS    OF    THE    DAY. 


one  for  Mi.ssis,  and  another  for  Miss  Maud. 
The  letters  are  taken  into  the  dining-room. 
Papa  and  Mamma  open  theirs,  but  Miss 
Maud  is  absent,  and  her  letter  is  placed  on 
the  mantelshelf  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances Mary  would  have  taken  the  letter 
direct  to  her  young  mistress.  ]3ut  Miss  Maud 
is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  with  her  the 
young  gentleman  to  whom  she  is  engaged. 

Mar>'  knows  better  than  to  disturb  that 
little  tete-a-tete.  She  has  a  sympathetic 
heart,  and  is  engaged  herself.  So  the  young 
couple  sit  on  undisturbed,  and  talk  below 
their  voices  and  gaze  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  dream  the  old  sweet  dream  in  the  cosy 
little    drawing-room.     Vox  this  is   the  sweet- 


It  is  a  pretty  face,  but  a  sad  one,  and 
every  now  and  then  tears  come  into  the 
eyes.  One  big  tear  rolls  down  and  drops 
upon  the  little  frock  that  the  young  mother 
is  mending.  In  the  corner  of  the  room  are 
a  little  wooden  sword  and  a  paper  cap,  the 
.soldier's  sword  and  cap  of  the  little  boy  who 
lies  asleep  in  the  next  room.  The  children 
prattle  of  the  war,  and  the  little  boy  tells 
his  playmates  proudly  that  his  father  was 
a  soldier  and  fought  the  Boers. 

To-night  the  young  mother's  thoughts 
wander  far  away  from  the  noisy  street  to  a 
grave  in  a  far-off  land.  Outside  a  couple 
of  young  men  pass  singing  the  latest  music- 
hall  patriotic  song.     The  young  widow  drops 


BEHIND    THE    BLINDS. 


277 


WHEN   GUESTS   HAVE    LEFT. 


and  sat  on  the  doorstep  and  quarrelled,  and 
slapped  each  other,  shouting  separately  and 
together.  When  they  went  away  an  organ 
grinder  began  to  grind  out  the  latest  popular 
air.  Then  the  author  rose  in  his  wrath  and 
rushed  frantically  to  the  front  door  and 
shrieked  at  the  man  to  begone.  And  the 
servants  opposite  thought  him  a  brute,  for 
to  them  the  organ  was  a  joy. 

Gradually  he  has  brought  his  mind  back 
again  to  the  imaginary  people  of  his  plot. 
But  before  he  can  quite  "  hear  them  talk " 
a  boy  comes  up  the  street  with  newspapers, 
and  shouts  a  tragedy.  The  author  flings  his 
pen  down  and  waits.  The  cry  of  the  hawker 
dies  away  in  the  distance.  Now  he  will 
begin.  There  is  the  sound  of  a  cab  driving 
up  to  the  door,  a  loud  knock  and  a  ring. 
Then  through  the  open  door  the  clamour  of 
voices,  and  then  the  banging  of  heavy  luggage 
as  it  is  deposited  in  the  hall.  The  people 
who  have  taken  the  drawing-room  floor  are 
moving  in.  The  unhappy  author  flings  down 
his  pen  with  a  cry  of  mingled  rage  and 
despair.  All  chance  of  writing  a  line  that 
night  has  gone.     For  a   time  he  sits  gazing 


her  work  and  leans  her  elbow  on  the  table 
and  loses  herself  in  a  reverie.  Then  her  lips 
move  and  her  eyes  are  raised  in  tearful 
supplication  to  Heaven  to  watch  over  and 
guard  her  little  ones,  and  give  her  strength 
to  bear  her  sorrow  and  to  live  for  them. 
Outside  the  song  of  England's  prowess,  the 
song  of  defiance  to  England's  enemy,  is 
shouted  by  the  roystering  lads.  Every  word 
of  it  is  as  the  stab  of  a  dagger  to  the  soldier's 
widow  sitting  in  tearful  reverie  behind  the 
blinds. 

A  long  street  in  Bloomsbury,  one  of  those 
streets  of  gloom  and  sadness  that  make  the 
foreigner  marvel,  and  contribute  to  the 
melancholia  of  the  native.  Nearly  every 
house  in  this  street  lets  apartments.  In  the 
front  room  of  one  of  them  on  the  ground 
floor  a  man  of  about  two-and-thirty  is 
writing.  He  is  an  author,  entirely  dependent 
on  his  pen,  and  struggling  to  make  enough 
to  keep  his  wife  and  child  in  comfort.  The 
paper  in  front  of  him  is  a  blank.  His 
thoughts  have  been  disturbed  again  and 
again.  Soon  after  he  sat  down  to  do  an 
evening's    work    a   group   of    children    came 


A   NIGHT   REVERIE. 


278 


LIVING    LONDON. 


at  vacancy,  paralysed  by  the  hopelessness  of 
his  task.  Outside  the  noises  of  the  street 
continue.  No  one  seems  to  give  a  passing 
thought  to  the  hundreds  of  brain  workers 
who  have  to  sit  night  after  night  in  noisy 
London  trying  to  earn  their  living  behind 
the  blinds. 

What  a  marvellous  human  picture  gallery 
London  would  be  were  the  blinds  all  raised. 
What  scenes  of  grief  and  joy,  of  love  and 
hatred,  of  hope  and  despair,  of  low  scheming 
and  brave  endeavour  are  hidden  by  the 
interposing  veil.  The  student  sits  at  his 
books,  the  tired  mother  at  her  work,  the 
gamblers  gather  round  the  card  table,  the 
kitchen  maid  painfully  scrawls  a  letter  to 
her  love.  Fashion  sits  around  the  flower- 
decked  dining  table,  the  struggling  tradesman 
pores  over  his  accounts,  the  humble  home 
toilers  work    on  far  into  the  night   at    their 


ill-paid  handicraft.  The  coiner  works  in  fear 
and  trembling  at  his  nefarious  task.  The 
clergyman  writes  his  sermons.  The  criminal 
listens  with  a  silent  dread  to  every  sound. 
A  knock  at  the  door  puts  his  heart  in  his 
mouth,  the  murmur  of  voices  below  his 
window  brings  the  cold  sweat  upon  his  brow. 
The  children  sit  around  the  table  in  the 
happy  home  with  their  toys,  struggling  to 
keep  awake  long  after  the  dustman  has  rung 
his  bell  ;  the  widow  sits  in  her  loneliness  and 
thinks  of  the  days  that  are  no  more,  the 
young  bride  nestles  to  her  husband's  side  by 
the  cosy  fire  where  the  cat  purrs  contentment, 
and  the  four  walls  shut  in  an  Eden  of 
happiness  and  love.  From  the  cradle  to  the 
grave  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life  are  there. 
The  newly-born  utters  his  first  cry,  the  newly- 
dead  has  breathed  his  last  breath — behind 
the  blinds. 


"  BEGONE  1 " 


279 


SINDAY    MORNING    EAST    AND    WEST. 

By  A.  ST.  JOHN  ADCOCK. 


A  SUNDAY  morning  in  the  height  of 
summer.  The  Trafalgar  Square  foun- 
tains flicker  and  flash  dazzlingly  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  air  is  so  quiet  that  from 
the  edge  of  the  glowing  pavement  you  can 
catch  the  cool  tinkle  of  the  water  as  it 
showers  back  into  the  basins. 

This  time  yesterday  morning  the  roar  of 
life  was  at  its  loudest  here  :  a  busy,  innumer- 
able crowd  billowed  restlessly  into  the 
Square  and  out  of  it  on  every  side  ;  carts, 
cabs,  'buses,  carriages,  rushing  incessantly 
to  and  fro  in  the  roadway,  made  the  cross- 
ing difficult  and  even  perilous.  But  to-day 
an  obvious  tourist,  abetted  by  his  wife,  is 
leisurely  erecting  a  camera  to  photograph 
the  Nelson  Column,  and  looks  lonely  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

Nobody  is  in  a  hurry  this  morning.  Most 
of  the  passers-by  wear  such  an  aggressive 
air  of  being  out  for  pleasure,  and  not  on 
business,  as  you  may  have  noticed  in  school- 
boys playing  truant.  There  is  a  faded  old 
man  on  the  rim  of  one  of  the  fountains 
hunched  in  an  attitude  that  suggests  years 
of  bending  over  a  desk  in  some  dull 
office,  but  now  he  is  reading  his  Sunday 
paper  instead  of  writing  in  a  ledger  ;  and 
on  the  benches  round  about  more  or 
less  seedy  loafers  are  basking  in  drowsy 
contentment. 

From  the  direction  of  St.  Martin's  Church 
a  char-a-banc  crawls  hesitantly  by  the  kerb, 
and  a  narrow  board  on  the  side  of  it  indicates 
that  it  is  prepared  to  take  excursionists  to 
Kew  or  Hampton  Court.  A  straggling 
*  procession  of  similar  vehicles  is  slowly 
approaching  down  the  Strand  :  most  of  them 
have  a  few  holiday-makers,  male  and  female — 
emancipated  shop-hands,  steady-going  clerks, 
and  visitors  from  the  country — already  seated 
under  their  striped  awnings,  and  the  drivers 
and  conductors  are  keeping  an  alert  look-out 
for  more. 

For  nearly  an  hour  past    a  shiny,  yellow, 


smart  private  brake  has  been  standing  op- 
posite one  of  the  hotels  near  this  end  of 
Northumberland  Avenue,  and  now  you  are 
warned  by  the  stiffening  of  the  groom  at  the 
horses'  heads  that  those  it  waits  for  are  at 
length  in  sight.  A  very  gay,  very  elegant 
party  of  Americans  streams  out  of  the  hotel, 
making  a  sudden  brightness  in  the  shadow 
of  the  huge,  sombre  building  :  Papa,  glorious 
in  a  blindingly  white  waistcoat,  a  Panama 
hat,  and  loose  white  trousers ;  Mamma,  very 
stout,  rosy  and  good-humoured,  gowned  in 
pink  under  a  pink  parasol ;  three  young  girls, 
one  of  them  evidently  her  daughter,  and 
a  middle-aged  lady  youthfully  dressed,  all 
four  a  bewildering  shimmer  of  white  and  blue 
and  crimson  ;  and  with  them  are  three  young 
men  and  a  middle-aged  one  clothed  in 
summery  tweeds  and  serges.  As  there  is 
only  room  for  eight  inside,  one  of  the  young 
men  reluctantly  climbs  up  beside  Papa,  who 
is  taking  the  reins  ;  and  away  they  go,  whirl- 
ing airily  across  the  Square,  a  many-hued 
bubble  of  laughter  and  merry  chattering,  that 
switches  off  into  Pall  Mall,  and  is  beyond 
sight  and  hearing  at  once,  as  if  it  had  burst 
at  the  corner. 

A  little  way  down  the  Strand,  where  all 
the  shops  are  asleep  and  the  pavements  but 
thinly  peopled,  if  you  look  in  under  the  wide 
archway  of  a  certain  hotel  you  shall  see, 
against  a  background  of  loungers  in  basket- 
chairs,  with  iced  drinks  on  spindly  tables  at 
their  elbows,  spruce  cabs  and  carriages 
waiting  for  their  owners  or  hirers  ;  and 
conspicuous  amidst  them  the  dandy  black 
and  yellow  coach  that  will  presently  start 
for  a  run  to  Walton  -  on  -  Thames.  Its 
dapper,  white  silk-hatted  coachman  stands 
deferentially  discussing  his  four  horses  with 
a  prospective  passenger ;  and  from  the  long 
wicker  sheath  hung  by  the  back  seat  pro- 
trudes the  brazen  horn  that  by-and-bye, 
when  the  full  coach  rattles  gallantly  on  its 
journey,    will    waken   jolly   echoes    in    sober 


28o 


LIVING    LONDON. 


suburban    streets    and    green    lanes    by    the 
riverside. 

By  this  time  the  bells  are  ringing  for 
morning  service,  and  the  out-of-door  popula- 
tion is  leavened  with  an  increasing  proportion 
of  church-  and  chapel-goers,  of  both  sexes 
and  all  ages,  carrying  red  or  gilt-edged 
books.  Wandering  west,  along  Pall  Mall  into 
Piccadilly  and  through  the  stately  byways 
of  Mayfair,  you  meet  with  more  and  more 
church-goers,  more  fashionably  dressed,  and 
more  aristocratic  of  look  and  bearing.  Gener- 
ally there  is  one  exquisitely  groomed  male 
to  every  two  ladies,  but  now  and  then  the 
ladies  are  unescorted  ;  and  occasionally, 
armed  with  the  inevitable  red  or  gilt-edged 
volumes,  two  or  three  of  the  sterner  sex  are 
stepping  churchwards  together,  with  no  petti- 
coated  accompaniment  to  persuade  them 
thither. 

There  are  church-goers,  too,  in  some  of 
the  few  carriages  that  are  rumbling  demurely 
among  'buses  and  e.xcursion  vehicles  down 
Piccadilly  ;  and  dashing  past  them,  with  a 
jaunty  levity  that  has  a  spice  of  wicked- 
ness in  it,  comes  a  hansom  carrying  a 
blissful  man  in  boating  flannels.  Beside  him 
is  a  pretty    river    nymph   in  a  sailor    blouse. 


KOUR-IN-HAND. 


smiling  out  from  under  the  sauciest  straw 
hat  that  was  ever  made.  The  glimpse  you 
have  of  them,  and  of  the  sly  luncheon  hamper 
on  the  roof,  gives  you  such  a  vivid  momentary 
vision  of  sunny,  rippling  water  and  two  in 
a  boat  that  you  can  almost  hear  the  cool 
plash  of  the  dipping  oars. 

Whichever  way  you  take,  there  are  cyclists 
everywhere — women  and  men,  alone,  in  pairs, 
and  by  the  dozen.  Turning  back  and  up 
Regent  Street  to  loiter  for  a  while  at  Oxford 
Street  corner,  you  see  how  the  tops  of 
outward-bound  'buses  are  bubbling  and  froth- 
ing over  with  gossamer  white  hats  and 
dresses,  and  laces  and  ribbons  ;  and  occasion- 
ally, embowered  among  all  this  finery,  you 
may  pick  out  the  mother  of  a  family  nursing 
the  youngest,  the  father  nursing  the  dinner- 
basket,  and  overheating  himself  with  saving 
less  manageable  members  of  the  family  from 
tumbling  off  into  the  road. 

Panting  and  snorting  and  bumping,  there 
goes  a  motor-car  ;  four  knickerbockered  men 
inside  it,  and  the  back  of  it  bristling  with 
golf-clubs.  Here  comes  a  dog-cart  with 
a  smart  looking  party  out  for  the  day  ; 
followed  presently  by  a  glossy,  high-step- 
ping steed  drawing  a  natty  trap,  wherein 
is  a  large  man,  keenly  conscious  of  his 
own  dashing  aspect,  of  the  elegance  and 
loveliness  of  the  lady  who  sits  by  him  as 
brilliantly  arrayed  as  a  very  butterfly,  and  of 
the  tremendous  effectiveness  of  the  white- 
breeched,  top-booted  footboy  perched  with 
folded  arms  at  the  back.  Comfortable  people 
are  out  sunning  themselves  in  landaus  ; 
expected  guests  are  spinning  off  in  cabs 
to  pleasant  little  luncheons  in  Suburbia ; 
and  all  the  time  there  are  more  cyclists, 
by  ones,  by  twos,  by  threes ;  and  yonder, 
spreading  and  thinning  out  and  winding 
among  the  traffic  like  a  flight  of  birds,  comes 
a  party  of  nearly  a  score,  a  flutter  of  feminine 
drapery  here  and  there  lending  a  touch  of 
grace  and  gallantry  to  it,  to  say  nothing  of 
colour. 

And  now  the  pavements  grow  temporarily 
populous  with  pedestrians  homing  from 
church  ;  and  sprinkled  among  them  are 
nursemaids  returning  from  the  Park,  wheeling 
in  dainty  perambulators  aristocratic  infants 
who  .slumber  deep  in  .soft  frills  and  laces 
under    lace-edged    canopies.       Entering    the 


SUNDAY    MORNING    EAST    AND    WEST. 


28r 


Park  at  Marble  Arch,  and  passing  the  usual 
agnostic,  the  usual  prophet,  the  usual  social 
reformer  thundering  to  half-bored,  half- 
amused  audiences  near  the  gate,  you  advance 
round  Rotten  Row,  and  are  very  soon 
mingling  in  the  church  parade  of  a  highly 
fashionable,  highly  decorous  crowd  that  grows 
denser  at  every  step  you  take  into  it,  until 
your  walking  perforce  slows  down  to  the 
gentlest  possible  foot-pace. 

For  under  the  trees  here  all  the  beauty 
and  fashion  of  the  West  hold  high  carnival  in 
the  hour  betwixt  coming  from  church  and 
going  to  luncheon  ;  but  the  whole  vast 
multitude  is  toned  to  such  well-mannered 
harmony  that  there  is  no  crush  anywhere, 
no  unseemly  excitement,  no  haste — only  a 
stately  pacing  this  way  and  that,  murmuring 
of  sedate  voices,  and  rippling  of  politely 
modulated  laughter.  On  the  garden  .seats 
down  the  centre  of  the  broad  path  and  at 
the  side,  and  on  the  green  chairs  closely 
scattered  between  the  seats  and  more  closely 
across  the  grass  behind  them,  one  half  of  the 
crowd  rests  and  looks  on  at  the  other  half 
which  is  in  motion.  Members  of  Parliament, 
retired  military  officers,  financial  princes, 
men  of  title  and  rank,  pompous,  indif- 
ferent, affable,  dignified  ;  gay  old  gentle- 
women quizzing  the  throng  through  their 
glasses,  .severe  old  gentlewomen  disregarding 
it  all  with  petrified  stares  ;  blushful  maidens, 
callow  swaggering  youths,  matured  imper- 
turbable maidens  and  bored  men  of  experi- 
ence, matrons  and  dames,  and  fussy  or  stolid 
36 


AWHEEL. 


old  heads  of  old  families,  all  talking  and 
flirting  and  bowing  and  smiling  and  strolling 
and  meeting  and  turning,  and  meeting  and 
passing  again,  or  pausing  to  shake  hands  and 
chat  for  a  minute  of  last  night's  ball,  or 
to-morrow's  play,  or  this  evening's  little 
dinner. 

Across  the  other  side  of  London  at  this 
same  hour,  and  from  several  hours  earlier 
and  for  several  hours  to  come,  there  gathers 
another  crowd  as  vast  as  this,  but  differently 
composed  and  in  a  vastly  different  environ- 
ment. In  place  of  the  grass  and  trees  on 
one  side  of  the  road,  and  the  gorgeous, 
neatly  ordered  flower  beds  on  the  other,  you 
find  two  rows  of  squalid  shops,  wide  open 
and  roaring  alluringly  for  customers ;  in  place 
of  the  garden  .seats,  here  is  a  confusion  of 
overloaded  stalls  fringing  the  pavements  to 
right  and  left  from  end  to  end  of  the  long, 
narrow  thoroughfare ;  and,  in  place  of  the 
unimpeachable  carriages  and  equestrians  in 
the  roadway  and  the  polite  gathering  on  the 
footpath,  here  the  sun  glares  down  through 
a  dusty,  malodorous  atmosphere  on  a  loud, 
surging,  struggling,  closely  -  packed  mob, 
elbowing  and  shouldering  hither  and  thither 
sturdily,  and  on  eager  shopkeepers  and  stall- 
keepers  bawling  and  gabbling  in  diabolical 
concert.     For  you  are   in  the  East,  and  this 


28; 


LIVING    LONDON. 


is   Middlesex   Street,   unofficially  known   as 
Petticoat  Lane. 

Arriving  in  Bishopsgate  Street  Without  a 
little  before  eleven,  \'ou  might  ha\e  seen  the 
tide  of  well-dressed  or  decent  church-  and 
chapel-goers  at  the  full,  and  have  heard  the 
church  bells  ringing  placidly  as  they  rang 
in  the  West  ;  but  the  moment  you  plunged 
into  the  "  Lane "  their  pealing  would  have 
been  inaudible  in  the  nearer  clamour  of 
human  voices.  This  tall  red  building  is  the 
Jews'  Free  School,  anc>  the  droning  of 
scholars  at  their  lessons  floats  out  at  the 
open  windows  and  mingles  with  the  howls  of 
the  fish  salesman,  the  wail  of  the  lemon 
seller,  and  the  raucous  patter  of  the  cheap 
jack.  You  pass  from  a  clothier's  stall  to 
a  butcher's,  to  tinware,  crockery,  toy,  fruit, 
hat  and  cap  stalls,  confectioners'  stalls,  boot 
stalls,  more  cheap  jacks,  more  fish  stalls, 
more   clothiers,  and   pretty   well  all  of  them 


BIRD    FAIR    (SCLATKR    STREET,    BETHKAL   GREEN). 


Jews.  Now  and  then  you  collide  with  a  man 
who,  having  no  stall,  careers  about  in  the 
crowd  with  a  stack  of  trousers  on  his 
shoulder,  and  flourishing  a  pair  in  his  hand 
implores  you  to  take  your  choice  from  his 
stock  at  "  a  dollar  a  time  "  ;  you  meet  men 
and  boys  adrift  in  like  manner  with  braces, 
handkerchiefs,  socks,  boots  ;  an  old  bearded 
Hebrew  hovers  at  the  corner  of  Wentworth 
Street  with  a  huge  bowl  of  gherkins  steeped 
in  a  yellowish  liquid,  and  reiterates  drearily, 
"  All  in  winegar — 'apenny  each  !  " 

Opposite  an  earnest  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  bellows  o\er  a  glass  tank,  "  'Ere  yar  ! 
The  champiun  lemin  drink — 'apenny  a  glass. 
'Ave  yer  money  back  if  yer  don't  like  it !  " 
And  close  alongside  a  gramaphone  is  all  the 
while  reproducing  a  sharp,  jerky  imitation 
of  the  voice  of  a  popular  music-hall  star 
singing  a  comic  song.  Just  beyond  it  a 
clothier  mad  with  zeal  has  leaped  upon  his 
stall,  and  is  frantically  waving  a  coat  before 
the  eyes  of  the  crowd.  "  As  good  as  it  was 
the  day  it  was  made  !  "  he  shrieks.  "  Look 
at  it  for  yerselves.  It'll  stand  it.  Look  at 
it !  "  He  hurls  it  at  the  simmering  mass,  and 
it  completely  extinguishes  two  heads,  the 
owners  whereof  casually  disentangle  them- 
selves from  it  and  toss  it  back  to  him. 
"  Worth  'arf  a  guinea,"  he  insists.  "  It's 
goin'  for  eight  bob — 
s  e  V  e  n — s  i  x — fi  ve — 
three  an'  a  tanner,  an' 
not    a    farden    less    if 

I Now  then,  Sam, 

'elp  the  genelman  try 
it  on."  He  pitches  it 
to  a  paunchy,  shirt- 
sleeved  partner,  and 
the  next  moment  the 
customer,  a  weedy 
youth  and  shy,  is 
trying  it  on.  "  'Ow's 
it  fit  at  the  back?" 
the  partner  demands 
of  a  friend  who  is  with 
the  customer.  "  Bit 
loose,  ain't  it?" 
•'  Loose  !  "  interrupts 
the  partner  furiously. 
"  Young  fool — where 
is  it  ?  'E'll  never  'ave 
no  better  fit  than  that, 


SUNDAY    MORNING    EAST    AND    WEST. 


283 


not  at  any  price."  He  pats  the  customer 
encouragingly  on  the  shoulder,  has  his  money 
in  a  twinkling,  and  sends  him  shuffling  off 
with  his  old  coat  under  his  arm. 

The  fair  overflows  all  the  streets  branch- 
ing from  Petticoat  Lane,  and  diverging  to 
the  west  you  may  penetrate  to  Cutler  Street 
and  Phil's  Buildings,  which  are  wholly  given 
over    to    clothiers ;    going    farther    east    by 


doors  and  in  the  gutters  hutches  and  cages, 
tov.ering  one  above  another,  .swarm  with 
rabbits,  fowls,  pigeons,  ducks,  cockatoos, 
parrots,  thrushes,  canaries,  and  such  smaller 
birds  in  amazing  variety;  and  the  sellers  bawl 
against  each  other,  and  the  birds  crow,  coo, 
quack,  scream,  and  sing  against  each  other 
deafeningly.  Men  without  shops  or  stands 
roam  in  the  crowd  carrying  a  cage  or  two 

and  crying  their 
wares ;  men  and 
boys  waylay  you 
in  the  crush  or  on 
the  skirts  of  it  with 
wriggling  heaps  of 
rabbits  at  the 
bottom  of  small 
sacks,  and  offer 
you  the  pick  of  the 
bunch   for  six- 


pence. 

E  s  e  a 
throusjh 


ping 

Cygnet 


way  of  Wentworth  Street,  which 
is  as  rampant  and  as  congested 
as  the  "  Lane "  itself,  you  emerge 
on  Spitalfields,  where  the  Market 
is  half  open,  trafficking  with  coster- 
mongers,  whose  trucks  and  donkey- 
carts  are  huddled  outside  it. 

This  turning  by  the  church 
brings  us  to  Brick  Lane,  and  Brick 
Lane  leads  to  Sclater  Street,  locally 
known  as  Club  Row,  where  you  will 
find  Bird  Fair  in  full  blast.  It  is 
Petticoat  Lane  over  again  on  a  much  smaller 
scale ;  with  next  to  no  Jews,  hardly  any 
women,  less  diversity,  no  side-shows  (unless 
you  count  the  betting  tipster  and  refreshment 
stalls  right  out  past  the  limits  of  the  crowd)  ; 
no  frivolity  in  short,  but  strict  attention  to 
business. 

Most  of  the  shops  in  Sclater  Street  are 
kept  by  bird  dealers,  and  their  outer  walls  up 
to  the  first  floor  have  all  broken  into  an 
eruption    of  bird    cages.      Beside    the    shop 


OUT   FOR   THK   DAY. 

Street,  you  stumble  into  a  smaller,  quiet 
market  in  Bethnal  Green  Road,  for  the  sale 
of  cycle  tyres  and  second-hand  accessories ; 
and  meat  and  vegetable  stalls  are  moderately 
busy  for  some  distance  past  it.  Noon  being 
gone,  as  you  follow  the  Bethnal  Green  Road 
and  Cambridge  Road  to  Mile  End  Gate, 
people  are  coming  away  from  Sunday 
morning  services,  many  in  Salvation  Army 
uniforms,  and  loafers  gathered  at  street  corners 
are  yearning  for  the  public-houses  to  open. 


SUNDAY   MORNING   IN   HYDE   PARK    (CHURCH    PARADE). 


riob,    A.  t,  li*gJl4t,  foUaM,  ^.W. 


SUNDAY   MORNING    IN    MIDDLESEX    STREET,    WHITECHAPEL. 


SUNDAY    MORNING    EAST    AND    WEST. 


28s 


A  drab,  dingy,  squalid  neighbourhood  ; 
and  yet  you  come  upon  Romance  flowering 
in  the  heart  of  it.  You  will  not  see  a 
carriage  stopping  every  day  in  front  of  that 
grimy  old  house  sandwiched  between  the 
shops  yonder ;  and  you  may  easily  know 
why  it  is  there  now  by  the  rose  in  the  driver's 
buttonhole  and  the  white  ribbon  bow  on  his 
whip,  and  by  the  sightseers  who  form  a 
double  line  from  the  carriage  door  to  the 
gate  of  the  house,  and  include  two  frowsy 
women  with  babies,  several  small  children 
carrying  smaller  children,  and  one  unwashed 
infant  who,  propelled  by  a  bare-footed  sister, 
has  arrived  in  considerable  state  in  a  soap 
box  on  wheels. 

Whitechapel  Road  presents  a  very  different 
spectacle  from  that  to  be  seen  at  this  hour 
in  Oxford  Street  ;  and  yet  it  has  at  least  one 
point  of  resemblance,  for  all  the  'buses  and 
trams  running  away  from  London  are  packed 
with  happy  fugitives  who  are  running  away 
from  it  too.  But  here  is  no  Oxford  Street 
equipage,  this  coster's  barrow  racing  and 
rocking  towards  Chingford  under  the  weight 
of  its  owner  and  some  friends,  the  former  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  and  the  feminine  members  of  the 


party  in  all  the  pride  of  bright  dresses  and  big- 
feathered  hats.  Some  little  distance  behind 
them  a  substantial  family  group  jolts  soberly 
along  on  chairs  and  boxes  in  a  greengrocer's 
cart ;  and  overtaking  and  passing  them  whirl 
a  dozen  of  Epping-bound  cyclists — factory 
lads  and  artisans,  mostly  in  their  working 
clothes — who  will  return  under  the  stars 
to-night,  tired  perhaps  and  rather  rowdy, 
with  green  branches  and  blossoms  wreathed 
round  their  handle-bars. 

Night  is  half  a  day  off  yet,  however.  It  is 
only  just  luncheon  hour  in  the  West,  where 
the  gongs  are  calling  pleasantly  select  gather- 
ings to  shady  interiors  of  Belgravia  ;  and 
here,  in  the  East,  the  loafers  have  dis- 
appeared from  the  corners,  for  the  public- 
houses  are  open,  and  you  are  meeting  shirt- 
sleeved  men  and  bare-armed  women  going 
for  the  dinner  beer,  and  men,  women,  and 
children  hurrying  home  with  steaming  dishes 
from  the  bakehouses — some  one  or  other  of 
the  hungry  urchins  pausing,  maybe,  at  a  safe 
corner  to  raise  the  cloth  from  his  dish  and 
thrust  a  finger  in  after  a  well-browned, 
succulent  potato,  wherewith  to  propitiate  his 
appetite  by  the  way. 


SUNDAY   EXCURSIONISTS   PASSING   DOWN   PICCADILLY. 


286 


SEARCHING   A    CHINESE   SEAMAN  S   CHEST. 


HIS     MAJESTY'S    CISTOMS. 

By  E.  S.   VALENTINE. 


HARD  by  Billingsgate,  stretching  for  a 
matter  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
or  so  along  Thames  Street,  rises  a 
large  grey  stone  building,  inhabited  during 
business  hours  by  three  hundred  clerks.  It 
may  be  not  inaptly  termed  the  "  King's  Toll- 
Bar  for  London."  It  is  the  Custom  House. 
Here  is  the  home  and  centre  of  the  revenue 
collection  of  the  greatest  port  in  the  world. 
It  is  the  headquarters  of  a  small  army  of 
blue-coated  and  brass-buttoned  functionaries 
familiar  to  merchants  and  mariners,  tourists 
and  travellers  :  all,  indeed,  whose  business  or 
pleasure  leads  them  to  foreign  parts  and 
home  again  to  the  heart  of  the  British 
Empire. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  these 
numerous  emissaries  of  the  Custom  House 
are  ever  gathered  together  within  its  four 
walls.  They  are  distributed  in  batches — all 
save  the  actual  clerical  staff — and  often  many 
months  may  elapse  before  they  so  much  as 
set  eyes  upon  the  chief  establishment. 

For  instance,  if  you  wend  your  way  along 
the  banks  of  the  river  east  of  the  Tower  of 
London,  you  will,  at  intervals,  amidst  the 
mass    of    closely-packed    tall    buildings    and 


high  walls,  come  across  small,  unpretentious 
structures,  inscribed  with  the  legend  "  His 
Majesty's  Customs."  Outside,  maybe,  an 
officer  will  be  standing  with  his  gaze  bent 
upon  the  Thames,  where  his  comrades  are 
in  a  boat.  These  are  the  water-guard,  whose 
duty  it  is  to  board  ships  coming  up  the  river, 
and  to  superintend  the  unloading  of  such  as 
carry  bulk  cargo.  A  group  of  officers  and 
searchers  taken  at  the  Tunnel  pier  is  shown 
in  the  photographic  reproduction  on  p.  289. 
The  men  serve  long  hours  —  twenty-four 
at  a  stretch.  If  your  curiosity  impels  you  to 
peep  into  their  quarters,  you  see  in  one  room 
a  couple  of  chairs  and  a  desk  littered  with 
the  latest  official  orders  and  notifications. 
Tobacco  or  brandy  is  expected  to  arrive 
carefully  done  up  in  the  form  of  cheeses,  or 
a  large  consignment  of  pirated  English  copy- 
right works  is  to  be  seized.  If  you  glance 
into  the  other  room  of  these  water-guards, 
your  nostrils  may  be  assailed  by  the  aroma 
of  ham  or  beefsteak,  which  our  Customs 
officer  himself  is  preparing  against  the  return 
of  his  comrades. 

"  Oh,    yes,    we    mess    for    ourselves,"    says 
your    host,    in    response  to    a   query  on   this 


UJ 

w 

D 
O 
X 

w 
2 

O 
H 
w 

D 

o 

UJ 

X 

h 


HIS    MAJESTY'S    CUSTOMS. 


287 


head  ;  "  Government  furnishes  the  utensils, 
and  we  do  the  rest — that  is,  when  we're 
ashore.  When  we're  out  on  the  river  we 
carry  our  lunch  with  us,  or  mess  on  board 
ship." 

Each  group  of  the  water-guard  consists  of 
four  only,  and  the  land-guard  men  make  up 
most  of  the  outside  service. 

They  are  vigilance  incarnate,  these  Custom 
House  men.  It  is  no  use  trying  to  evade 
them.  Day  and  night  they  are  on  the  watch, 
waiting  at  the  docks,  rowing  in  the  middle 
of  the  Thames,  strolling  about  the  railway 
stations,  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  incomer, 
whether  he  be  master  of  a  merchantman  or 
merely  proprietor  of  a  modest  portmanteau, 
with  the  query,  "  Anything  dutiable  ?  "  or 
"  Anything  to  declare  ?  " 

Every  year  it  grows  harder  to  elude  or 
cheat  the  Customs.  Yet  the  system  in  vogue 
to-day  is  infinitely  simpler  than  it  used 
to  be.  As  has  already  been  said,  the  "  out- 
side "  staff  of  the  Custom  House  is  made  up 
of  a  land-guard  and  a  water-guard.  There 
are  no  longer  any  "  tide-waiters  "  or  "  land- 
waiters,"  such  as  appertained 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago. 
At  each  of  the  great  docks 
there  are  from  forty  to  eighty 
officials.  It  is  the  duty  of 
some  of  these  to  look  after 
the  cargo,  while  others  inspect 
the  effects  of  passengers  and 
the  crew.  While  this  process 
is  going  on  aboard  ship,  the 
master  of  the  vessel  is  sending 
a  report  of  her  arrival  and  an 
account  of  her  cargo  to  the 
Custom  House,  which  he  is 
obliged  by  law  to  do  within 
twenty-four  hours  from  enter- 
ing port.  Not  a  box  or  a 
bale  may  be  landed  until  the 
master's  declaration  and  that 
of  the  consignee  have  been 
compared  by  the  indoor 
clerks  at  the  Custom  House, 
and  what  is  known  as  the 
"  entry,"  or  warrant  showing 
the  duties  on  such  goods  as 
are  dutiable  to  have  been 
paid,  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
Customs  men  at  the  docks. 


The  process  of  examining  luggage  by  the 
Customs  inspectors  at  the  docks  is  a 
sufficiently  familiar  one  to  all  who  have  ever 
travelled  out  of  this  kingdom.  The  general 
air  of  bustle  and  excitement ;  the  impatience 
and  oftentimes  the  annoyance  of  the 
travellers  at  the  delay  ;  the  occasional  pro- 
testations on  the  part  of  nervous  ladies  ;  the 
grim  determination  of  the  inspectors  to  probe 
to  the  bottom  of  every  mystery  ;  and  once 
in  a  way  the  discomfiture  of  a  detected 
smuggler,  unaware  of  the  enormity  of  his  or 
her  offence  ;  the  strange  apparition  of  cigars 
in  the  middle  of  steamer  cushions,  and  of 
brandy  or  perfume  dexterously  concealed  in 
under  garments  :  all  this  forms  a  twice-told 
tale.  Rigorous  attention,  too,  is  required  and 
given  to  the  heterogeneous  luggage  of  the 
aliens  who  land  upon  our  shores. 

Sometimes  foreign — and,  alas,  British — 
members  of  the  crew  exhibit  an  ingenious 
pertinacity  for  smuggling.  The  officer  who 
is  told  off  to  visit  their  quarters  is  usually 
acquainted  with  their  devices  ;  for  it  seems 
pretty  hard    to    Jack   Tar  that  he   may  not 


CAUGHT   IN   THK    ACT. 


288 


LIVING    LONDON. 


bring  his  friends  and  family  tobacco  and 
spirits  which  he  has  bought  "  dirt  cheap  "  in 
foreign  parts. 

But,  as  might  be  expected,  by  far  the 
cleverest  and  most  obstinate  smuggler  is  the 
Chinaman.  As  an  instance,  a  couple  of 
Chinese  seamen  on  board  an  Indiaman  were 
imprisoned  for  concealing  four  pounds  of 
tobacco  and  refusing  to  pay  the  fine  upon 
detection — that  is  to  say,  treble  the  value 
of  the  goods  with  the   duty  added,  which  in 


impertinences  which  occasionally  distinguish 
countries  where  a  tariff  wall  has  been  care- 
fully reared.  The  business  here,  be  it  said  to 
the  credit  of  our  Customs  officers,  is  often 
done  with  an  adroitness  which  a  conjurer 
might  envy.  Presto  !  and  your  largest  trunk 
is  "  inspected "  to  its  innermost  depths,  and 
a  tiny  cabalistic  chalk  mark  affixed  which 
enables  )'ou  to  pass  the  barrier  with  an  air  of 
conscious  rectitude — forgetful,  perhaps,  of  the 
two  or  three  smuggled  volumes  of  Tauchnitz, 


LUGGAGE   AWAITING    KXAMINATION    BY    CUSTOMS   OFFICKKS    (CHAKING    CROSS    STATION). 


their  case  amounted  to  £i  1 3s.  each.  There 
are  always  some  amusing  cases  of  this 
description,  especially  on  the  arrival  of  a 
large  vessel  from  the  East  whose  crew  has 
never  before  been  subjected  to  a  Customs 
examination. 

At  the  railway  stations,  such  as  Charing 
Cross,  about  the  hour  that  the  Continental 
expre.ss  is  due,  the  little  group  of  Customs 
officials  are  on  the  alert  to  examine  such 
goods  and  luggage  as  have  come  through  in 
bond,  so  to  speak,  from  the  port  of  Dover. 
England  being  a  free-trade  country,  the 
returned  tourist  or  the  foreign  visitor  or 
immigrant  misses,  as  well  he  may  and  with 
gratitude,  those  too  assiduous  attentions  and 


plainly  marked  "not  to  be  introduced  into  the 
United  Kingdom,"  reposing  in  the  folds  of 
your  pyjamas. 

One  mighty  department  of  the  Customs 
consists  of  the  bonded  warehouses  beneath, 
above,  and  surrounding  the  docks.  Herein 
are  stored  the  vast  quantities  of  wine,  spirits, 
tea,  tobacco,  etc.,  not  required  by  the  importer 
for  the  present,  the  duty  being  therefore 
unpaid.  These  vaults  and  warehouses  are 
guarded  day  and  night,  they  are  under  Crown 
lock  and  key,  and  none  may  enter  them  for 
the  purpose  of  removing  goods  unless  he 
carries  with  him  a  receipt  from  the  Long 
Room  of  the  Custom  House  showing  that  the 
King's  fee  has  been  duly  paid.     The  bonded 


HIS    MAJESTY'S    CUSTOMS. 


289 


warehouses  at  St.  Katherine's  Docks  can  hold 
110,000  tons  of  goods,  those  of  London 
Docks  over  250,000  tons,  and  the  Royal 
Albert  Docks  have  accommodation  for  an 
even  larger  amount.  All  the  tobacco  im- 
ported into  London  is  stored  at  the  Victoria 
Docks.  There  it  stands,  piled  in  huge 
casks,  often  millions  of  pounds'  worth,  with 
iJ  1 00,000  worth  of  cigars  in  chests.  The 
wines  and  spirits  are  in  vaults  at  the  London 
Docks ;  tea  and  sugar  being  distributed 
amongst  various  bonded  warehouses.  It  is 
at  the  London  Docks  that  one's  eye  catches 
sight  of  a  door  in  the  east  angle  inscribed 
"  To  the  Kiln."  This  leads  to  a  furnace 
in  which  adulterated  tea  and  tobacco, 
pinchbeck  jewellery,  and  other  confiscated 
wares  were  for  many  years  burnt. 

"  We  burn  few  things  here  now,"  remarked 
one  of  the  Customs  officers  ;  "  most  of  what  is 
done  takes  place  at  Deptford.  The  tobacco 
is  given  to  the  asylums,  especially  those  for 
the  insane,  throughout  the  country." 

"  I  suppose  you  destroyed  a  good  deal  of 
contraband  merchandise  in  the  old  days  ? " 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  a  shilling  for  every 
hundred  pounds'  worth  I've  burnt.  I've 
thrown  a  bushel  of  paste  diamonds,  600  hams, 
4,000  pirated  novels,  2,ooo  pairs  of  gloves, 
and   150  pounds  of  tobacco  into  the  kiln  in 


OFFICERS   AND   SEARCHERS    (TUNNEL   PIER) 


37 


BEADLE. 

the  course  of  a  day.  I've  burnt  six  crates  of 
condemned  pork-pies,  fifteen  dozen  infected 
undershirts,  and  forty  boxes  of  cigars  during 
a  morning.  If  you  happen  to  be  a  smoker 
or  a  snuff-taker,  it  goes  very  much  against 
the  grain  to  see  good  material  going  to  waste; 
but  if  importers  won't  pay  the  Customs  dues 
they  must,  of  course,  be  taught  a  lesson.  Yet 
I,  for  one,  am  glad  the  Board  has  to  a  great 
extent  abolished  the  old  plan  of 
burning." 

And  now,  after  having  taken  a 
brief  survey  of  the  character,  num- 
bers, and  duties  of  the  outside 
staff,  let  us  return  to  headquarters 
in  Thames  Street,  at  which  as 
yet  we  have  only   glanced. 

As  you  cross  the  threshold  into 
the  wide  corridor  you  are  con- 
fronted by  a  gorgeous  beadle  in  a 
scarlet  cloak  and  cocked  hat. 

"  The  Long  Room  ? "  echoes 
the  beadle,  marvelling  that  anyone 
could  by  any  possibility  be  ignor- 
ant of  the  precise  whereabouts  of 
that  mercantile  emporium,  "  Up- 
stairs to  the  left."  And  he  waves 
his  arm  in  the  direction  of  a 
crowded  staircase,  by  which  two- 
score  Custom  House  frequenters 
are  ascending  and  descending 
Half-way  up   the  staircase  a  long 


29C 


LIVING    LONDON. 


row  of  placards,  proclamations,  and   official     is  here,  at  the  section  marked  "  Report  Office," 
announcements,   affixed    to   the   wall,   invite     that  the  master  of  every  ship  entering   the 

Thames  from  foreign  parts  must  deliver 
an  account  of  her  cargo.  It  may  be  a 
simple  document  (if  the  cargo  is  of  a 
single  article  and  consigned  to  but  one 
person),    or    it    may   consist   of  several 


ALIENS  AND  OTHERS  AT  THE  DOCKS  :  AFTER  LUGGAGE  EXAMINATION. 


the  attention.  Mariners  are  notified  that 
there  is  a  wreck  in  the  river  which  they 
are  cautioned  to  avoid ;  there  is  an  announce- 
ment concerning  the  sugar  duty  ;  John  James 
is  requested  to  take  his  goods  out  of  bond  ; 
William  Smith  has  been  promoted  to  a  first- 
class  inspectorship ;  and  so  on,  each  fresh 
notice  as  it  is  pasted  up  commanding  a 
due  amount  of  respectful  attention. 

At  last  we  have  gained  the  Long  Room, 
far  famed  wherever  the  merchant  flag  of 
Britain  floats,  which  has  given  its  name  to 
a  hundred  and  more  so-called  "long rooms" 
in  Custom  Houses  all  over  the  kingdom, 
rooms  which  are  only  long  in  respect  of 
time,  and  often  not  even  in  that.  But  this 
— the  original  Long  Room  of  the  Port  of 
London — justifies  its  name.  It  is  really  a 
huge  apartment — 190  feet  in  length  by  66 
in  breadth,  and  of  majestic  height.  Kighty 
clerks  are  seated  behind  the  continuous 
counter  which  runs  round  its  four  sides. 
This  is  the  department  where  the  bulk  of 
the  documents  required  by  the  Customs 
laws  are  received  by  the  King's  officials.     It 


papers,  and  be  somewhat  intricate  (if  the 
cargo  is  a  mixed  one  and  belongs  to 
several  persons).  It  is  the  business  of  the 
Customs  officials  to  compare  the  master's 
report  with  the  one  presented  by  the  con- 
signee. If  they  agree,  all  is  well  ;  other- 
wise an  explanation  is  demanded.  If  the 
items  of  the  cargo  are  of  a  dutiable 
nature,  the  duty  must  be  paid  ;  after  which 
the  consignee's  papers,  or  "  entries,"  are  signed 
by  the  Long  Room  officials,  and  serve  as 
a  warrant  to  the  Customs  officers  at  the 
docks  to  release  the  cargo. 

Sometimes,  just  before  the  announcement 
of  the  annual  Budget  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  Long  Room  of  the  Custom 
House  presents  a  very  animated  scene 
indeed  ;  as,  for  instance,  when  a  rumour  got 
abroad,  in  the  spring  of  1901,  that  the 
Government  had  decided  to  impose  a  duty 
upon  sugar.  It  so  happened  that  the  very 
day  when  the  duty  was  to  come  into  effect 
a  ship  arrived  in  the  Thames  laden  with 
many  hundreds  of  tons  ;  the  captain  made 
the   utmost   haste    up    the    river,   and    then 


HIS    MAJESTY'S    CUSTOMS. 


291 


despatched  the  fleetest  messenger  obtainable 
to  reach  the  Custom  House  and  report  his 
cargo.  Alas !  the  messenger  flew  at  top 
speed,  but  he  was  not  quick  enough.  He 
arrived  in  Thames  Street  a  few  minutes  too 
late — the  Custom  House  had  closed  at  four 
o'clock.  Had  the  captain's  emissary  been 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  sooner,  or  his  ship 
a  faster  sailer,  the  consignee  would  have  been 
saved  a  trifle  of  ;^4,000  duty.  Where  the 
goods  are  in  bond — that  is  to  say,  stored  in 
the  Government  warehouses,  as  sugar  now  is 
— the  business  of  removing  it  must  still  be 
transacted  at  the  Custom  House. 

The  Customs  duties  levied  here  amount 
to  i^  1 0,000,000  a  year,  or,  in  other  words, 
about  half  the  Customs  of  the  kingdom  are 
paid  at  the  Port  of  London.  To  accomplish 
all  the  work  that  the  collection  of  this  vast 
sum  entails  there  are  no  fewer  than  170 
rooms  in  the  Custom  House,  besides  the 
Long  Room.  But  there  is  very  little  that 
is  interesting  in  any  of  these ;  unless,  perhaps 
the    Board    Room,    where    oil    portraits    of 


George  HI.,  George  IV.,  and  Queen  Victoria 
adorn  the  walls. 

But  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  big  building 
in  Thames  Street  is  an  extensive  warehouse, 
where  confiscated  goods  which  are  not 
destined  to  undergo  the  ordeal  of  the  flames 
await  the  annual  sale  in  Mincing  Lane. 
This  is  the  King's  Warehouse  ;  and  is  simply 
but  bountifully  packed  with  the  most  singular 
and  fantastic  omnium  gatherum  of  merchandise 
from  the  four  corners  of  the  globe.  Cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  dozen  boxes  of  raisins  and  a 
couple  of  cameras  will  be  an  imitation  grand 
piano  containing  a  hundred  gallons  of  brandy, 
a  couple  of  tons  of  chocolate,  a  hundred 
dozen  bottles  of  perfumery,  five  hundred 
flagons  of  liqueurs,  thousand  of  prunes,  and 
figs  and  tea  ad  libitum.  The  sale  of  con- 
fiscated articles  usually  brings  in  a  matter 
of  .^2,000  per  annum,  even  though  some  of 
the  merchandise  goes  for  a  mere  song  to 
the  fortunate  purchasers  who  foregather  in 
November  at  the  official  mart  in  Mincing 
Lane. 


THK    LONG    KOOM. 


292 


IN     BATTERSEA     PARK. 


FOOTBALL     LONDON. 

By  HENRY  LEACH. 


THERE  is  one  section  of  London's  vast 
population  which  doesn't  care  a  jot 
for  football,  another  which  goes  simply 
mad  over  it,  and  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  the  latter  is  increasing  con- 
siderably. And  these  two  sections,  be  it 
remembered,  are  not  merely  and  respectively 


SCHOOLBOYS    AT    PLAY. 


the  old  and  the  young.  Whilst  there  are 
ragged  urchins  kicking  paper  balls  in  back 
alleys  in  Fulham  and  Whitechapel,  there  are 
top-hatted,  frock-coated  gentlemen  with  grey 
beards,  who  sorrow  over  the  passing  of  sixty 
winters,  but  who  yet  on  this  same  afternoon 
are  kicking  the  boards  in  front  of  them  on 
the  stand  at  Queen's  Club,  so  high 
and  so  uncontrollable  is  their  excite- 
ment as  they  watch  the  fortunes  of 
a  great  match.  Only  in  the  brief 
half-time  interval,  when  the  players 
are  being  refreshed,  is  the  nervous 
strain  the  least  bit  slackened.  A 
football  ground,  after  all,  is  one  of 
the  best  places  in  the  world  for  the 
observation  of  raw  human  nature. 

There  have  been  many  eras  of 
London  football,  and  of  such  stern 
stuff  is  the  London  football  enthusiast 
made  that  for  a  period  of  adversity, 
extending  over  nearly  two  decades, 
he  could  still  keep  his  mind  steadfastly 
fixed  on  one  great  purpose  and  work 
unceasingly  for  its  accomplishment- 
So  in  1 90 1,  when  Tottenham  Hotspur 
won  the  English  Cup,  the  equality  cf 
London  with  the  rest  of  the  football 


FOOTBALL    LONDON. 


293 


world — not    to    say    its  superiority — was  re- 
established. 

Football  in  London  rouses  itself  from  its 
summer's  sleep  less  readily  than  it  does  in 
the  provinces,  where  they  keep  a  vigil  on 
the  last  night  of  August  that  they  may  the 
earlier  kick  the  ball  when  September  dawns. 
In  London  we  are  not  so  precipitous,  and  we 
recognise  the  right  of  King  Cricket  to 
prolong  his  life  for  a  few  more  days  if 
he  may.  Nevertheless,  when  the  autumn 
comey  football  is  in  the  air,  and  the  great 
professional  clubs  lose  no  time  in  the 
commencement  of  their  business.  Even 
in  August,  when  the  sun  is  hot  o'erhead, 
and  when,  according  to  football  law,  no 
matches   shall   be   played   under  pain  of 


the  threshold  of  the  season's  campaign.  And 
that  other  one  is  eight  months  in  advance, 
in  the  last  days  of  March  and  the  beginning 
of  April,  when  the  proven  stalwarts  of  the 
season  close  together  for  the  final  bout  in 
which  the  honours  at  last  are  the  laurels  of 
absolute  and  undisputed  championship. 

It  seems  to  me  that  few  modern  pastimes 


A    RUGBY    "SPRINT' 

(BLACKHEATH    CLUB). 


can  so  conjure  up  in 
one's  mind  a  vision  of  the 
games  of  old  as  this  prac- 
tice football,  when  the 
qualities  of  the  players 
are  being  tested,  and  when 
every  mind  is  on  the 
strain  as  to  how  the  best 
possible  team  shall  be  se- 
lected. Every  individual 
of  the  crowd  round  the 
rails  has  an  interest  in 
the  result.  Either  he 
the  most  grievous  penalties  —  yes,  even  in  pays  his  half-guinea  for  a  season  ticket  or 
this  warm,  mellow  month,  if  you  come  with  his  admission  money  every  .Saturday,  and 
me   down    to    Woolwich    or    to    Tottenham      if  the  team  is  not  to  his  liking  he  will  want 


TAKING   THE    FIELD    (BLACKHEATH   CLUB). 


I  could  show  you  crowds  some  thousands 
strong.  And  these  would  be  criticising, 
praising  and  condemning,  hoping  and  de- 
spairing, but  all  of  them  yelling,  as  they 
watch     the     first     practice     games     of    the 


to  know  the  reason  why.  Nominally  the 
committee  is  the  arbiter  and  it  actually 
makes  the  choice  of  men  ;  but  no  com- 
mittee of  a  professional  club  in  the  metro- 
politan  area   or   anywhere   else  would  dare 


season  in  which  old  and  new  players  are  to  neglect  the  force  of  public  opinion  to 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  accepted  or  any  substantial  extent.  You  see,  it  takes 
rejected  for  the  League  team  as  the  case  some  thousands  a  year  to  run  these  pro- 
may  be.  This  is  a  time  for  nervous  excite-  fessional  clubs,  and  those  thousands  have  to 
ment  for  all  concerned,  and  indeed  in  this  come  from  the  men  who  are  shouting  round 
respect  there  is  only  one  other  period  which  the  green, 
may  be  properly  likened  unto  this  one  upon  And    so    it    happens    that    when    Sandy 


294 


LIVING    LONDON. 


McTavish,  the  new  forward,  who  has  come  all 
the  way  from  Motherwell,  Dumbarton,  or  the 
Vale  of  Leven  for  four  pounds  a  week,  strips 
himself  and  bounds  into  the  ring  for  practice 
and  for  judgment,  his  feelings  on  analysis 
are  found  to  be  much  the  same  as  those  of 
the  gladiator  in  the  glorious  days  of  Rome. 
Sandy  skims  down  the  wing  like  a  bird  in 
flight,  such  are  his  ease  and  grace  and  skill  ; 
and  at  the  right  moment — thud  !  and  the  ball 
has  whizzed  into  the  net,  a  splendid  and  most 
excellent  goal.  Sandy  thus  has  made  his 
mute  appeal.     The  crowd   is  appreciative,  it 


ON   THE    KOOF    OF    ST.    PAUL  S   CATHEDRAL    CHOIR   SCHOOL. 


screams  its  pleasure,  the  latest  Scot  is  the 
greatest  hero,  and — it  is  thumbs  up  for  Sandy. 
But  what  if  he  fumbled  and  fell,  and,  perhaps 
through  sheer  nervousness,  did  nought  that 
was  good  upon  a  football  field  ?  None  would 
know  so  well  as  Sandy  that  his  fate  was 
sealed,  and  that  no  mercy  awaited  him. 
There  are  scowls  and  murmurs  of  discontent 
from  beyond  the  touch-line,  and,  most  cutting 
of  all,  there  are  derisive  cheers.  Poor  miser- 
able Sandy  knows  full  well  that  thumbs  are 
down,  and  a  vision  of  the  second  team,  with 
a  subsequent  ignominious  transfer  to  some 
other  club,  comes  up  in  his  tortured  mind. 
Yes,  for  the  human  view  of  it,  for  the 
strenuousness,  the  excitement,  the  doubt, 
and  the  stirring  episodes  of  London  football. 


give  me  the  practice  games  in  the  early  days 
when  the  law  forbids  a  real  foe. 

And  when  the  season  opens,  away  bound 
the  professional  teams  like  hounds  unleashed, 
and  every  camp  is  stirred  with  anxious 
thoughts.  There  is  Tottenham  Hotspur, 
who  vindicated  the  South  after  the  period 
of  darkness.  Enthusiasm  always  runs  very 
high  at  Tottenham,  where  the  bands  play 
and  the  spectators  roar  themselves  hoarse 
when  goals  are  scored,  and  betake  them- 
selves in  some  numbers  to  the  football 
hostelries  when  all  is  over  to  fight  the  battle 
once  again.  It  is  a 
football  fever  of  severe 
form  which  is  abroad 
at  Tottenham.  Again, 
at  riumstead,  where 
the  Woolwich  Arsenal 
play — a  club  of  many 
achievements  and 
many  possibilities. 
The  followers  of  the 
Reds,  as  they  call  them 
from  their  crimson 
shirts,  are  amongst 
the  most  loyal  in  the 
land,  and  Woolwich 
led  the  way  in  the 
resuscitation  of  the 
South.  League  clubs 
came  to  Plumstead 
when  Tottenham  was 
little  more  than  a 
name.  Over  at  Mill- 
wall  is  the  club  of 
that  name,  which  has  likewise  had  its  ups 
and  downs,  though  they  call  it  by  way  of 
pseudonym  the  Millwall  Lion. 

In  the  meantime,  whilst  these  great  teams, 
and  the  others  which  are  associated  with 
them  in  London  professionalism,  play 
the  grand  football,  there  are  no  lesser  if 
younger  enthusiasts  by  the  thousand  in  the 
streets  and  on  the  commons  and  in  the  parks, 
and  their  grade  of  show  ranges  from  the 
paper  or  the  rag  ball  of  first  mention  in  this 
article  to  the  full  paraphernalia  of  the 
Number  Five  leather  case  and  the  regulation 
goal  posts  and  net.  And  don't  think  this  is 
not  the  most  earnest  football.  If  you  do, 
stroll  upon  some  Saturday  in  the  winter  time 
into  Battersea  and  Regent's  Park,  and  there 


FOOTBALL    LONDON. 


295 


you  will  see  the  youngsters  striving  for  the  struggle  between  the  Corinthians — the  most 
honours  of  victory  and  for  the  points  of  athletic  gentlemen  in  London  —  and,  very 
their  minor  Leagues.  The  London  County  likely,  one  of  the  strongest  League  teams 
Council   makes  provision  for  no  fewer  than     from  the  country.     There  is  certain  to  be  a 

very  big  crowd, 
which  is  second  to 
none  in  enthusiasm, 
but  there  is  this 
difference  between 
the  congregation 
these  matches 
draw  and  most 
others,  that  it  is  a 
trifle  more  cosmo- 
politan, a  trifle  less 
fanatical,  that  it 
breathes  a  little 
more  of  the  spirit 
of  amateurism  and 
the  'Varsities.  And 
up  at  another  great 
amateur   head- 


eight  thousand  of 
these  football  matches 
in  its  parks  in  a  single 
season.  And  at  our 
London  public 
schools  great  homage 
is  paid  to 
Football  under  widely 
varying  conditions. 
At  one  institution — 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral 
Choir  School — it  is 
even  played  on  the 
roof,  as  the  illustra- 
tion opposite  shows. 
And  then  there  are 
two  other  continuous 
features  of  London 
note.      The 


;   Eu-tU  t  fiexj,  CVyital  P<Uaet. 

A   COKNER 


football  that  I  must 
one  is  the  great  and  noble 
element  of  amateurism  which  must  always 
flourish.  Go  to  Queen's  Club,  Kensington, 
one  oi  the  finest  football  arenas  in  the  world, 
or    to    Leyton,    and    there    you    will    see    a 


OF   THE    CROWD    (CRYSTAL   PALACE). 

quarters,  Tufnell  Park,  you  should  see  a 
game  between  the  renowned  Casuals  and 
the  London  Caledonians  or  "Caleys."  That  is 
the  game  to  warm  the  blood  of  a  football 
follower.  And  at  that  historic  spot  which  is 
known  as  the  "Spotted  Dog,"  you  will  find 


296 


LIVING    LONDON. 


the  great  Clapton  team  disport  themselves. 
These  representatives  of  amateurism  are 
indeed  great  in  their  past,  great  in  their 
traditions,  even  if  they  are  not  great  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Leagues. 

The  other  notable  and  enduring  feature  of 
London  football  is  its  Rugby  section.  It  has 
a  story  all  its  own,  and  the  Rugby  enthusiast 
never  could  see  anything  in  the  "socker" 
game.  It  is  admitted  that  "rugger"  is  a  cult, 
a  superior  cult,  and  though  it  has  its  followers 
by  thousands  in  London,  it  is  not  the  game 
of  the  people  as  is  that  played  under  the  rival 
code  of  laws.  Yet  London  has  always  held  a 
glorious  place  in  the  Rugby  football  world, 
and  the  public  schools  and  the  'Varsities 
supply  such  a  constant  infusion  of  good 
new  blood,  so  that  when  the  fame  of 
Richmond  and  Blackheath  fade  away,  we 
shall  be  listening  for  the  crack  of  Rugby 
doom. 

And  so  the  eight  months'  season  with  its 
League  games,  its  Cup-ties,  its  'Varsity 
matches,  rolls  along,  we  round  the  Christmas 
corner  with  its  football  comicalities,  and  we 
come  in  due  course  to  the  greatest  day  of  all 
the  football  year,  when  the  final  tie  in  the 
English  Cup  competition  is  fought  out  at  the 
Crystal  Palace.  It  cannot  be  an  exaggeration 
to  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  sights  of  the 
London  year  when  over  100,000  screaming 
people  are  standing  upon  the  slopes  of  Syden- 
ham, and  with  quickened  pulses  watching 
the  progress  of  the  struggle.     How  the  rail- 


Jn   ICobing   iHcmonj 

Of  ,    who  died  whilst 

fighting    for    the   English    Cup    against 
at 
on 


iioldiy  to  the  fray  thtry  went. 

Hut  fjot  heatt:n  to  their  sorrow  ;  . 
They  were  put  to  sleep  by  a  better  te.im. 

And  the  funeral's  to-morrow. 


HALF-TIME    REFRESHMENTS. 


A   DEATH   CARD. 

way  coinpanies  get  them  all  there  from  the 
city  is  a  mystery,  and  it  is  another,  though  a 
lesser  one,  as  to  how  quite  half  that  crowd 
has  travelled  up  from  the  country  towns  and 
cities  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  On 
his  arrival,  the  country  Cup-tie  visitor, 
whether  he  comes  from  Manchester,  Sheffield, 
Birmingham,  or  any  other  of  the  great 
centres,  lets  all  London  know  of  the  fact,  so 
much  is  he  badged  and  bedecked  in  the 
colours  of  his  favourites. 

At  night,  when  the  greatest  battle  has 
been  won  and  lost,  he  swarms  over  the 
West-End  with  his  pockets  full  of  the 
many  football  editions,  and  a  death  card 
of  the  losing  team  in  proper  black-bor- 
dered "  In  Memoriam "  style  tucked  away 
in  his  pockets  as  a 
memento.  In  both  these 
paper  goods  is  a  great 
trade       done.  Football 

journalism  is  a  profession 
in  itself  with  all  its  own 
editors,  specialists,  and 
reporters. 

The  Cup  day  passes, 
and  now  the  season  nears 
its  end.  For  still  a  week 
or  two  it  holds  up  its  tired, 
nodding  head  ;  but  at  last 
there  comes  the  first  morn- 
ing of  May,  and  all  is  over. 
And  even  the  football 
Londoner  is  not  sorry  for 
that. 


297 


TABLE     LAND     IN     LONDON. 

By  J.  C.   WOOLLAN. 


COME  with  me  now  and  see  one  of  the 
most  strangely  human  sights  that  the 
world  can  show.  It  is  that  of  the 
biggest  city  there  is,  and  the  one  containing 
most  varieties  of  human  life,  being  fed  during 
an  ordinary  day.  Very  likely  it  has  never 
struck  you  that  there  is  anything  remark- 
able in  this  process.  But  when  you  come 
to  know  or  reflect  that  there  are  some 
hundreds  of  people  breakfasting  in  the  city 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that — so  it 
has  been  calculated  —  there  are  nearly  a 
million  people  lunching  in  restaurants  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  Strand  every  day,  and 
that  each  evening  some  thousands  of  dinners 
are  laid  on  West-End  restaurant  tables 
which,  with  wine,  cost  an  average  of  a 
sovereign  each,  whilst,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  far  more  Londoners  who  live  each 
day — and  live  not  at  all  badly  either — on  a 
single  shilling  each  —  when  you  come  to 
think  of  all  this,  and  hundreds  of  other 
facts  of  a  more  detailed  and  more  interest- 
ing character  which  could  be  adduced,  you 
will  begin  to  perceive  that  the  Table  Land 
of  London  must 
indeed  be  one  of 
the  biggest  wonders 
of  this  glorious  Me- 
tropolis. 

We  must  .set  out 
very  early,  when 
three  -  quarters  of 
London  is  asleep, 
and  we  must  stay 
up  very  late,  when 
half  the  sleepers 
have  done  their 
day's  work  and  gone 
to  bed  again,  if  we 
would  .see  but  a 
little  of  the  abund- 
ant variety  of  this 
Table  Land.  So 
the  night  air  still 
gives  a  clammy 
38 


touch  to  the  cheek  when  we  turn  out  to  see 
the  beginning  of  the  feeding  of  London.  In 
the  West  there  are  still  cabs  crawling  near 
the  doors  of  clubs  to  pick  up  the  few  who 
live  by  night  and  sleep  by  day,  but  the 
chefs  of  the  West  are  now  all  asleep,  dream- 
ing perchance  of  hundred-guinea  dishes  they 
would  serve  to  kings  at  tables  in  Walhalla. 
To-night  we  will  come  back  to  the  West ; 
but  now,  for  the  opening  of  the  day  of  food, 
we  must  hurry  away  to  the  East,  for  the  doors 
of  Pearce  and  Plenty  and  Lockharts  and 
others  are  already  ajar.  Wonderful  institu- 
tions are  these,  dotted  up  and  down  in 
this  part  of  London,  where  folk  of  inferior 
means  abound.  Even  while  they  remained 
closed,  but  when  the  men-servants  within 
were  astir  and  boiling  gallons  of  water  and 
giving  their  mugs  a  rinse,  there  were  some 
hungry  loafers  outside  who  had  dozed 
throughout  the  night  in  doorways  and  on 
benches,  and  whose  stomachs  had  moved 
them  betimes  to  spend  the  two  or  three 
coppers  earned  or  begged  the  night  before 
Tattered    and  unkempt    they   enter   now ; 


298 


LIVING    LONDON. 


tliat  tlie  average  cost 
per  meal  per  person 
at  these  places  is  not 
above  threepence. 
Pearce  and  Plenty 
alone  supply  forty 
thousand  meals  a  day, 
and  in  their  case  the 
average  cost  to  the 
diner  works  out  at 
less  than  twopence. 
We  must  hasten  from 
here  to  the  quarters 
of  the  city  which 
begin  their  work  at 
nine  o'clock,  and  soon 
need  feeding ;  but 
still,  while  we  are 
carefully  noting  the 
food  expenditure  of 
the  working  poor,  we  may  carry  the  ex- 
amination a  little  further,  for  it  will  serve  to. 
show  us  what  a  vast  business  this  one  is. 

The  purveyors  with  the  alliterative  and 
euphonious  names  use  up  in  a  year  thirteen 
tons  of  cocoa  and  twenty-six  of  tea.  They 
require  for  their  business  of  this  period  as. 
many  as  900  tons  of  flour  and  1,000  tons 
of  potatoes.  A  thousand  oxen,  a  thousand 
sheep,  and  more  than  a  thousand  pigs  are 
slaughtered  for  them  ;    they  need  a  hundred 


ai.kxandra  trust 
rkstaukaxt  (city  road) 
brp:akfast. 


for  a  halfpenny  they  get  a  mug  of  steaming 
tea,  and   for  another  a  piece   of  bread    and 
butter,  and,  satisfied  with  their  penny  break- 
fast, they  loll  a  while,  and  then  they  go  their 
way    again.      Carters   and    lorrymen,  always 
amongst    the    first    astir,    take    their    places, 
and    then    there    come    the    workers    whose 
working  day  begins  at  six  o'clock,  and  who 
breakfast  here  for  twopence  as  a  preliminary. 
By    eight    o'clock    these    restaurants    of   the 
poorer  people  are  all  as  busy  as  can  be,  and 
so  they   remain 
throughout    the    day 
and  well  on  into  the 
evening.      The    two- 
penny breakfast  gave 
way  to  the  fivepenny 
and  sixpenny  dinner 
—we    call    it    dinner 
here  at  midday — and 
that  in  its  turn  to  the 
twopenny     tea,     and 
that  to  the  twopenny 
supper.     Here  and  at 
the  Alexandra  Trust 
restaurant  in  the  City 
Road,  as  well   as  at 
the  Red  House,  Com- 
mercial   Road    East, 
the  sixpence  provides 
for  the  people  a  sub- 
stantial   meat    meal. 
It  is  tolerably  certain  aerated  bread  company's  depot  (ludgate  hili.)  :  mid-day. 


TABLE    LAND    IN    LONDON. 


299 


thousand  gallons  of  milk ;  and,  as  a  cap 
upon  all  these  astounding  figures,  they  sell 
a  million  and  three-quarters  of  eggs !  So 
great  is  the  business  of  feeding  these  literally 
twopenny-halfpenny  diners,  and  such  are 
the  style  and  quality  of  these  latter  when 
seated  at  their  tables,  that  a  hundred  mugs 
and  cups  are  broken  every  day,  and  on  an 
average  about  forty  thousand  plates  and 
saucers    every  year. 


under  its  full  title  and  dignity  as  an  Aerated 
Bread  Company's  depot,  or  a  B.T.T.  as  one 
of  the  British  Tea  Table  Company's  estab- 
lishments. These  places,  with  their  long 
galleries  of  tables  and  their  neat  and  uni- 
formly-clad female  attendants,  are  really, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  one  of  the 
foremost  institutions  of  London,  and  are 
peculiar  to  London.  How  the  Metropolis 
could  get  on  without  them  nowadays  is  not 


SLATERS    RESTAURANT    (PICCADILLY)  :    AFTERNOON. 


We  have  been  rather  anticipating  the 
feeding  of  the  day  in  the  above  ;  but  at 
any  rate  we  have  finished  with  the  third- 
class  restaurant,  and  shown  of  what  it  is 
capable.  So  we  may  move  on,  as  we 
proposed,  into  the  heart  of  the  City,  into 
Cheapside,  Fleet  Street,  and  the  Strand. 
It  is  now  the  turn  of  the  A.B  C.  depots, 
and  the  Lyons'  tea-houses,  which  are  found 
in  every  direction.  Those  known  by  the 
names  of  Express  Dairy,  Golden  Grain, 
B.T.T.,  Mecca,  and  other  distinctions  are 
all  busy  with  their  various  customers.  The 
Londoner  is  always  partial  to  abbreviations, 
and  would  hardly  recognise  an  A. B.C.  house 


to  be  imagined.  Some  few  of  them  have 
been  busy  before  we  stroll  their  way  at 
eleven  o'clock,  but  now  they  are  all  hard  at 
work.  City  clerks  and  business  men,  who 
could  not  breakfast  before  they  left  their 
homes,  or  who  did  not  do  so  sufficiently, 
turn  in  for  their  coffee  and  rolls  at  four- 
pence  or  fivepence  a  time. 

A  gradual  transformation  scene  takes 
place,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  these  depots 
are  thronged  with  the  ninepenny  luncheon 
crowds,  who  lunch  lightly  from  tea  or  coffee 
and  eggs  or  cold  meat.  At  half-past  one 
every  seat  is  metaphorically  at  a  small 
premium ;    but    an    hour    later   the    crush    is 


TABLE   D'HOTE   AT    THE    TROCADERO. 


TABLE    LAND    IN    LONDON. 


3or 


over,  and  preparation  is  made  for  the  lighter 
business  of  afternoon-tea.  An  institution 
indeed  !  Do  you  l<now  that  one  of  these 
firms  of  caterers  in  all  its  depots  dispenses 
two  million  loaves,  a  million  rolls,  and  five 
million  buns  and  cakes  in  one  year?  And 
in  the  same  period  they  use  up  nearly  half- 
a-million  pounds  of  tea,  coffee,  and  cocoa, 
and  350,000  gallons  of  milk  1  Multiply  these 
vast  figures,  and  you  will  have  approximately 
some  idea  of  the  heavy  contribution  which 
the  tea-shops  make  to  the  Table  Land  of 
London. 

And  these  are  only  the  light  lunchers- 
The  City  and  the  Strand  district,  and  now 
the  West-End,  have  been  pouring  their 
tens  of  thousands  into  every  grade  of  res- 
taurant, from  the  humble  sausage  shop  to 
the  aristocratic  Prince's.  There  are  the 
restaurants  such  as  Slater's,  the  Cabin,  and 
the  Piccadilly  "  Popular,"  for  the  people  of 
modest  incomes,  and  there  are  the  luncheon 
bars  like  those  of  Sweeting's  and  Pimm's, 
where  men,  whose  limit  is  about  fifteen 
minutes,  stand  up  and  eat  good  food  from  a 
marble  slab  ;  nor  must  Crosby  Hall  be  for 
gotten.  And,  in  the  Strand,  we  now  find 
Gatti's — the  famous  Gatti's — in  full  harness. 
In  the  long  Adelaide  Gallery  here  a  rare 
study  is  always  to  be  obtained  of  cosmopolitan 
human  nature,  taking  its  soup  and  meats- 
carved  in  full  view — and  sweets  and  cheese, 
and  drinking,  perhaps,  for  choice,  its  lager 
beer,  which  is  as  good  in  this  place 
as  anywhere.  The  Gallery  picture  is  even 
brighter  and  more  human  in  the  evening, 
when  the  dinner  dishes  are  served,  and 
later  on,  when  ladies  in  low-cut  bodices 
and  men  in  immaculate  evening  attire 
file  in  from  the  theatres  and  the  music-halls 
for  supper.  Gatti's  in  its  way  is  not  so  much 
of  London  as  of  England  and  the  world. 

Still  farther  West  the  thoroughly  fashion- 
able restaurants  are  now  gay  with  luncheon 
parties ;  yet  this  is  hardly  the  time  for  a 
proper  study  of  these  resorts.  Rather 
would  we  wait  an  hour  or  two  and  drop  in 
to  Slater's,  in  Piccadilly,  for  tea,  or  saunter 
down  Bond  Street,  and  discover  here  and 
there  several  cosy  tea  houses  whose  main 
object  is  the  accommodation  of  the  ladies 
of  society  who  often  find  themselves  in  this 
neighbourhood   on  a  summer  season's  after- 


noon. Or,  perhaps,  instead,  we  might  go  on 
to  Claridge's  in  Brook  Street,  where  for  a 
surety  there  will  be  many  lovely  women 
and  brave  men  of  the  highest  degree.  Foi 
Claridge's,  itself  in  the  heart  of  the  society 
quarter,  is  unique,  and  when  you  tread  upon 
the  india-rubber  frontage  and  notice,  on 
entering,  the  high  superiority  even  of  the 
servants,  you  instinctively  reali.se  that  this 
is  a  place  for  royalty  and  ambassadors ; 
and  so  it  is.  But  it  would  only  be  to 
meet  a  friend,  who  happened  to  be  staying 
there,  that  we  should  venture  to  take  tea 
in  such  a  social  capital.  When  you  come 
to  think  of  it  you  can  ring  any  number  of 
changes  on  afternoon  tea  in  the  West-End, 
and  the  searcher  of  experiences  will,  if  a 
lady,  and  a  lady  with  a  man  friend  who 
glories  in  the  M.P.  affix  to  his  name, 
assuredly  not  neglect  one  which  is  different 
from  all  others.  I  allude  to  the  popular 
society  pastime  of  taking  tea  in  summer  on 
the  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons  ;  and, 
lest  you  should  imagine  the  adjective  to  be 
unjustifiable,  let  me  tell  you  that  the  returns 
for  a  single  session  indicate  that  during  that 
period  the  lion's  share  of  forty  thousand  teas 
were  served  on  the  little  strip  of  promenade 
which  lies  between  our  noble  Parliament 
buildings  and  the  murky  waters  of  the 
Thames. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  electric  glow 
illumines  the  western  area,  we  return  again 
to  peep  at  a  few  places  in  a  fairyland  of 
evening  dress  and  epicureanism.  This  is 
the  reign  of  the  chef  For  some  time  in 
advance  he  and  his  serfs  have  been  hard  at 
work  in  the  planning  and  execution  of  such 
rare  dishes  as  their  restaurant  is  fanTous  for. 
The  chef  is  a  high  dignitary  whom  the 
curious  may  seldom  see.  He  is  an  artist, 
a  genius  whose  mind  is  constantly  at  work 
in  the  performance  of  some  new  feat  in 
culinary  science  which  will  bring  a  word  of 
approval  from  the  lips  of  the  most  exacting 
gourmet  who  places  faith  in  him.  Of  what 
he  is  capable  is  not  to  be  told  in  print, 
for  he  does  not  even  know  the  limits  of  his 
own  ambition.  The  possibility  of  making 
delicate  soups  from  old  boots  does  not 
appear  so  fantastic  to  him  as  to  his  clients. 
A  good  chef  and  a  good  waiter — and  if  you 
treat  the  London  waiter  fairly  you  find  him 


302 


LIVING    LONDON. 


an  excellent 
servant  —  are 
as  indispens- 
able to  true 
epicureanism 
as  the  appe- 
t  i  t  e  itself. 
The  c  h  e  f 's 
tools  must  be 
perfect,  and 
so  of  course 
they  are. 

The  kitch- 
ens of  the  big 
restaurants 
between  five 
and  nine  of 
the  evening 
are  a  revela- 
tion to  those 
who  only  eat, 
and  think 
nothing       of 

the  preparation.      Here   is  a  great 
cooks  in  many  grades  of  rank,  all 
spotless    white,    and    engaged    in 
manipulation    of   silvery    utensils. 


GATTI'S   (ADELAIDE    GALLERY)  :    MID-DAY. 

army  of      food    stuffs   come   to   them,   they  nave  their 

attired  in      in.structions,  and  in  good  time  there  pass  to 

the    deft     the  flower-bedecked,  glistening  realms  above 

The    raw      such  dishes  as  are  triumphs  of  the  culinary 

art.  You  can 
see  that  the 
scale  of  high- 
class  meal- 
making  is 
here  a  very 
grand  one ; 
but  you  would 
hardly  guess, 
all  the  same, 
to  what  these 
raw  food 
s  t  u  ffs  ag- 
gregate in 
quantity  in 
the  course  ot 
a  year.  Come 
into  the 
manager's 
office  of  one 
great  and 
fashionable 
res  t  aurant, 
which  is  not 
a  hundred 
miles    from 


KITCHEN    SCENE   AT   THE   CARLTON. 


TABLE    LAND    IN    LONDON. 


303 


Piccadilly  Circus,  and  look  at  his  record. 
Really  !  Nearly  500  tons  of  meat !  Poultry 
■ — 1 50,000  head!  More  than  a  hundred  tons 
of  fish!  Thirty  tons  of  potatoes!  About  a 
thousand  pounds  of  butter!  As  a  sample 
of  dessert,  nine  or  ten  tons  of  grapes. 
And,  though  one  of  the  largest,  this  is 
yet  only  one  of  the  score  or  two  of  high- 
class,  famous  restaurants  in  the  quarter  of 
high  life. 

Where  shall  we  dine  ?  must,  under  all  the 
circumstances,  be  always  a  perplexing  ques- 
tion. One  can  do  it  to  so  much  the  same 
effect  at  so  many  different  places  ;  yet  each 
has  in  its  way  its  little  distinctions.  A  purse 
containing  at  least  a  guinea  and  a  hajf — for 
that  is  about  the  price  of  a  really  first-class 
dinner  with  a  bottle  of  wine — is  assumed. 
Soho  has  a  reputation  all  its  own,  for  in 
numerous  little  places  here  you  may  feed 
on  six  courses  of  a  French  menu  for  a 
single  half-crown  or  less.  For  pure  luxury, 
however,  we  may  go  to  the  Carlton,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Haymarket  and  Pall  Mall, 
which  the  King  himself,  as  Prince,  was  known 
to  patronise  in  its  earliest  days.  Here  we 
may  see  the  greatest  men  in  society,  in  art, 
in   literature,   in   commerce,   and  the   fairest 


women  of  the  day  toying  with  an  entree 
and  chatting  amidst  a  scene  of  soft  splendour 
and  the  sweet,  low  strains  of  music.  Or  at 
Prince's,  or  the  Cecil,  or  the  Savoy,  or 
one  or  two  others.  Then  there  are  a  score 
more,  each  with  its  distinctive  fame.  There 
is  the  Caf6  Royal,  the  Continental,  the 
Criterion,  and  the  beautiful  Trocadero,  with 
a  table  d'hote  and  accompaniments  which  the 
experienced  London  diner  has  often  praised. 
There  is  Simpson's,  noted  for  old  English 
fare  ;  the  Bohemian  Romano's  ;  the  Imperial 
and  Verrey's  (with  its  "  Persian  Room  ")  in 
Regent  Street ;  and  Pagani's  in  Great  Port- 
land Street,  where  there  is  an  "  artists'  room," 
on  the  walls  of  which  many  celebrities — Mas- 
cagni,  Paderewski,  Melba,  and  others — have 
scribbled  or  drawn  something  or  other ;  there 
is,  too,  the  well-known  Monico,  and  one  must 
not  forget  Frascati's  winter  garden,  where 
one  seems  to  dine  among  the  palm  trees, 
and  can  study  the  great  variety  of  human 
life  to  be  encountered  here,  and  wait  for  yet 
another  solo  from  the  cornet  player  in  the 
band ;  so  dallying  with  the  hours  till  one 
realises  that  the  dinner-time  is  past,  that 
supper-time  is  coming  along,  and  that — 
heigho ! — a  long  day  is  far  spent. 


A   CORNER   AT   PRINCE  S. 


304 


IN   A   MEWS. 


GARDENING    LONDON. 

By  WALTER  P.   WRIGHT 


GARDENING  is  the  most  intensely 
human  pastime,  short,  perhaps,  of 
fighting,  that  the  Londoner  indulges 
in.  When  a  man  spills  the  contents  of  a 
watering-pot  over  himself,  the  veneer  of 
-civilisation  fades  away,  and  nature  comes 
through.  It  is  not  meant  to  convey  by  this 
that  he  flies  into  a  fearful  temper  and  uses 
heroic  language.  No !  On  the  contrary,  he 
beams  seraphicaliy  on  the  world  at  large, 
and  wonders  why  people  make  a  fuss  about 
so  trifling  a  thing  as  Fry's  last  century,  when 
he,  the  horticulturist,  has  struck  a  cutting. 

The  student  of  character  has  not  completed 
his  education  until  he  has  made  a  round  of 
London  to  study  its  gardens  and  gardeners. 
The  odds  are  that  he  will  find  he  has 
•opened  up  a  new  field — one  unexplored 
-either  by  the  fictionist  or  the  philanthropist. 
The  first  thing  that  will  strike  him  is  the 
astonishing  diversity  of  conditions  under 
which  people  overcome  by  the  love  of  flowers 
manage  to  grow  them  ;  and  if  he  be  a 
professional  horticulturist  his  astonishment 
will  be  the  greater  instead  of  the  less. 
There  are  certain  conditions  which  the  latter 
Jooks  on  as  essential  to  success,  and  lo !  the 


cockney  cultivator  sublimely  ignores  the 
whole  lot  of  them,  yet  scores  all  along  the 
line.  He  is  informed  that  the  plants  must 
be  watered  regularly,  so  he  floods  them 
twenty  times  a  day,  and  the  first-floor,  who 
dries  his  underclothing  on  the  window  ledge, 
goes  frantic  as  an  earthy,  worm-tinctured 
mixture  pours  down.  They  must  be  stimu- 
lated ?  Why,  surely  !  There  are  dregs  of 
beer,  and  lees  of  tea,  and  ashes  from  knocked- 
out  pipes,  and  match  ends,  and  chimney 
scraping.s.  Don't  make  any  mistake,  those 
plants  are  not  going  to  starve. 

Of  course,  there  is  no  phase  of  London 
gardening  which  interests  the  student  more 
than  window  culture.  Societies  exist  on 
purpose  to  encourage  this  sort  of  thing.  If 
a  Londoner,  male  or  female,  has  the  inspira- 
tion to  grow  plants  on  the  ledge,  you  may 
rest  satisfied  that  a  cactus,  or  a  petunia, 
or  a  begonia  will  be  found  there  soon,  in 
some  receptacle  or  other.  And  it  really 
need  not  create  very  much  surprise  if  the 
quality  of  them  is  as  good  as  those  which 
grace  the  balcony  or  porch  of  a  West-End 
mansion,  where  the  work  has  been  done  by 
a  florist,   under  contract,  very   likely,  to  the 


GARDENING    LONDON. 


30s 


IN   PORTiMAN    SQUARE. 

tune  of  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
There  is  as  much  interest  in  the  mews  garden 
as  in  that  in  Portman  Square. 

The  back-street  window  gardener  does  not 
usually  rest  content  with  a  plain  box  or  a 
simple  row  of  pots ;  he  generally  rigs  up 
an  archway,  or  a  miniature  palisade  (the 
latter  painted  a  very  vivid 
green),  or  even  something 
more  elaborate  still  in  the 
way  of  a  tomtit  green- 
house, the  finial  of  which 
is  graced  with  his  country's 
flag.  He  is  patriotic,  let 
me  tell  you,  as  well  as 
inventive. 

The  same  spirit  of 
ingenuity  marks  the  gar- 
dener a  little  further  out, 
where  they  have  forecourts 
and  back  patches,  like  the 
Walworth  garden  here 
shown.  I  used  to  gaze 
with  a  speculative  eye 
from  a  passing  train  on 
one  back  garden  which 
contained,  in  addition  to 
39 


a  vegetable  corner,  a  stuffed  donkey.  This 
animal  was  a  real  work  of  art,  and  its  ex- 
pression was  one  of  mingled  envy  and 
admiration.  I  divined  that  its  presence 
there  had  some  deep  and  subtle  meaning, 
and  at  length  it  dawned  upon  me  that  it 
was  intended  to  convey  a  delicate  compli- 
ment to  the  owner's  carrots,  which  were 
sweet  to  it  even  in  death. 

Vain  the  attempt  to  gauge  the  happiness, 
the  solace,  the  contentment  which  this 
window  and  forecourt  gardening  brings  to 
those  who  indulge  in  it.  Think  of  the  lives 
they  lead — the  lives  they  are  bound  to  lead  ! 
These  toiling,  moiling  thousands  are  in  the 
grip  of  the  octopus  of  London  slumdom,  and 
they  do  not  recoil  from  the  monster  in  hate 
and  terror  ;  they  just  twine  flowers  round  its 
choking  limbs,  with  that  marvellous  patience, 
that  inexhaustible  courage,  that  odd,  half- 
humorous,  half-pathetic  determination  to 
make  the  best  of  things,  which  awaken  at 
once  the  wonder  and  respect  of  observers. 

Sometimes  a  young  reporter  on  a  weekly 
paper  discovers  a  garden  on  a  London  roof, 
and  clucks  as  loudly  as  a  gratified  cockerel 
over  his  first  grub.  Bless  the  reporter's 
innocent  heart,  there  are  gardens  on  hundreds 
of  roofs  in  London.  Many  a  Londoner 
can  lie,  anticipating  his  last  long  sleep — 
With  his  nose,  and  the  tips  of  his  toes, 
Turned  up  to  the  roots  of  the  daisies." 

And  if   they  are  not  daisies,  but   vegetable 


A   GARDEN   IN   WALWORTH. 


I.    firemen's   GAKDKN   near    BLACKKKIARS   bridge.      II.    ON   A   POLICE   COURT   ROOF. 
III.    AT   THE   TOWER    OF    LONDON.  IV.    ROYAL   HORTICULTURAL   SOCIETY'S 

SHOW    OF    COLONIAL    FRUIT,    KTC.    (viNCENT    SQUARE). 


GARDENING    LONDON. 


307 


marrows,  as  in  the  case  of  the  police  court 
roof  garden  illustrated  on  the  opposite  page, 
it  is  no  matter,  since  flowers  come  in  some- 
how. 

There  is  a  garden,  and  a  nice  one,  too, 
in  the  Tower  of  London,  as  the  reader  may 
see  by  another  of  our  photographic  repro- 
ductions. In  years  gone  by  the  Beefeaters 
used  to  hold  a  show  within  the  walls,  where 
capital  beetroot,  and  onions,  and  potatoes 
were  exhibited.  And  although  that  has  be- 
come a  thing  of  the  past,  owing,  I  believe, 
to  much  of  the  ground  having  to  be  given 
up,  gardening  is  still  carried  on. 

The  old  soldiers  have  plots  at  Chelsea. 
As  a  youngster,  it  often  fell  to  my  share 
to  go  to  the  old  Botanic  or  Physic  Garden, 
belonging  to  the  Apothecaries,  near  there, 
and  a  journey  on  to  the  Invalides  of  the 
Embankment  led  to  many  friendships  with 
the  veterans  who  gardened  within  its  gates. 

The  firemen  are  gardeners,  too.  You  will 
find  many  examples  of  their  skill  at  the  various 
stations  in  and  around  London,  and  there 
is  one  garden  which  anyone  who  visits  the 
floating  station  near  Blackfriars  Bridge  may 
see.  Whether  the  firemen  surreptitiously  set 
the  engines  to  work  in  order  to  water  the 
plants  is  not  known,  but  one  thing  is  certain, 
the  flowers  look  uncommonly  fresh  and  bright. 
It  would  be  hard  if  it  ever  fell  to  the  lot  01 
one  of  these  floricultural  firemen  to  mount 
to  one  of  the  windows  which  I  have  been 
talking  about  when  flames  were  spurting 
forth.  He  would  face  the  danger  to  his  own 
life  and  limb  calmly,  without  a  doubt,  but 
would  shrink  shudderingly  from  smashing  up 
the  canary  creeper  and  the  zinnias.  On  the 
other  hand,  what  gusto  he  would  display  if 
he  had  to  turn  the  hose  on  a  slug-infested 
box  of  phloxes  ! 

The  suburban  gardens  are  one  of  the 
glories  of  London.  It  is  worth  anybody's 
while  to  spend  a  day  amongst  them,  and  a 
compulsory  round  ought  to  be  ordained  for 
those  who  assert  that  the  Londoner  has  no 
sense  of  the  beautiful,  that  he  has  no  soul  for 
art.  One  of  the  most  famous  carnation 
growers  who  ever  lived  cultivates  his  prize 
flowers  in  a  back  garden  at  Clapham.  Then 
look  at  the  chrysanthemums  !  Hundreds  of 
amateurs  grow  collections  where  you  would 
not   think   that  there   was   room  to  hang  a 


clothes  line.  They  have  their  troubles,  of 
course,  for  the  feline  epidemic  rages  strongly 
in  Suburbia  ;  but  when  they  can  .sally  forth 
on  the  King's  birthday  with  a  flower  of  the 
size  of  a  savoy  in  their  buttonholes,  none  so 
happy. 

Art  is  one  of  those  little-big  words  which 
some  men  find  tender  morsels  on  the 
tongue.  It  means  much,  of  course,  if  you 
have  a  weighty  way  with  you,  and  nothing 
at  all  if  you  haven't.  But  if  a  man,  untrained 
by  any  professor,  takes  possession  of  a  mud- 
heap,  on  a  site  from  which  gravel  has  been 
taken,  and  on  which  discarded  hardware  has 
been  left,  and  straightway  makes  it  to  blossom, 
he  has  a  sense  of  the  artistic  not  less  true 
than  the  sense  of  the  Little-Big.  Well,  such 
a  thing  happens  thousands  of  times  every 
year  in  suburban  London,  and  examples  are 
to  be  found  by  all  who  care  to  .seek.  The 
gardens  in  Nevill's  Court,  which  you  enter 
through  a  passage  from  Fetter  Lane,  are  not, 
a  friendly  policeman  told  me,  quite  what 
they  used  to  be  in  years  gone  by,  but  on  a 
November  afternoon  I  saw  chrysanthemums 
there,  and  aucubas,  as  well  as  asters,  mar- 
guerites, and  rhododendron.s.  The  fact  is, 
most  people  gather  their  impressions  of 
floricultural  London  from  Covent  Garden 
Market,  which  is  very  fine  in  its  way,  but  is 
really  not  London  gardening  at  all. 

London  flower  shows  are  more  numerous 
than  most  people  are  aware.  They  range 
from  the  slum  display  of  pots  of  musk  and 
ivy-leaved  geraniums  in  dingy  mission-halls 
to  fashionable  affairs  held  by  the  two  great 
societies,  the  Royal  Horticultural  and  the 
Royal  Botanic.  The  former  held  really  fine 
e.xhibitions  every  fortnight  for  a  considerable 
number  of  years  in,  of  all  places,  the  drill 
hall  of  the  London  Scottish  Rifle  Volunteers, 
Buckingham  Gate,  Westminster.  It  was  a 
bare,  gloomy  sort  of  hall  in  the  early  hours 
of  a  foggy  morning,  but  when  the  costly  and 
beautiful  orchids  from  the  great  cultivators 
and  the  rare  new  plants  from  Kew  came 
along,  with  all  sorts  of  flowers,  fruits,  and 
vegetables,  there  was  a  transformation  scene 
if  you  like.  However,  the  Society  has  its  own 
hall  now — a  fine  building,  with  glass  roof,  in 
Vincent  Square,  Westminster,  and  the  flowers 
and  fruit  are  naturally  seen  to  much  better 
advantage  than  they  were  in  the  drill  hall. 


?o8 


LIVING    LONDON. 


The  professional  horticulturists  rather  affect 
to  snifif  at  the  Royal  Botanic  Society,  whose 
home  is  at  Regent's  Park.  Being  anxious  to 
popularise  itself  it  started  a  series  of  promen- 
ade fetes  and  the  like.  The  people  like  these 
very  well — the  professionals  don't.  Give  the 
horticulturists  a  chance  of  seeing  an  odonto- 
glossum  with  a  spot  half  an  inch  broad  on 
its    snow-white    petals    instead    of    one    only 


The  people  round  the  parks  look  out  for 
the  beginning  of  the  summer  bedding,  and 
they  look  out  for  the  end  of  it,  too,  for  when 
the  beds  are  cleared  a  large  number  of  plants 
are  given  away.  This  is  the  slum  gardener's 
opportunity.  It  is  all  very  well  for  that 
superior  jobbing  gardener  who  comes  and 
worries  you  to  let  him  muddle  up  your  place 
to  say,  as  he  often  does,  that  the  authorities 
take  good  care  to  keep  all 
the  decent  plants,  and  only 
give  away  the  rubbish, 
but  the  back-street  horti- 
culturist does  not  believe 
in  looking  a  gift-horse  in 
the  mouth.  He  takes 
what  he  can  get,  and 
makes  the  best  of  it — a 
very  good  best,  too,  some- 
times, believe  me.  With 
these  acquisitions,  and 
perhaps      a      few      bulbs 


three-eighths  of  an  inch 
across,  and  they  will  troop 
eagerly  to  the  spectacle, 
but  the  sight  of  Lohengrin 
in  his  car  in  a  children's 
procession  has  no  interest 
for  them,  though  knight 
and  swan  be  decked  never 
so  gaily  with  flowers.  Ad- 
dio  !  bel  cigno  canor !  the 
horticulturist  has  gone. 

There  is  one  thing  that 
the  much-maligned  Lon- 
don County  Council  must 
be  blessed  for.  It  has 
enormously  improved  the  London  parks  and 
public  gardens.  It  really  does  not  matter 
very  much  what  part  of  London  you  are  in, 
without  going  any  great  distance  you  can 
find  a  pretty  park  or  garden-like  enclosure. 
Most  of  these  are  very  admirably  kept. 
They  have  their  displays  of  hyacinths,  tulips, 
and  daffodils,  then  after  a  sort  of  spring 
cleaning  they  blossom  out  towards  the  end 
of  May  with  the  summer  bedding. 


afternoon  promenanp;  frte  in  thf,  royal  botanic 
society's  gardens,  regent's  park. 


picked  up  at  a  stall  near  the  Smithfield 
Meat  Market,  followed  up  by  some  odd 
roots  bought  from  a  costermonger's  barrow 
in  the  spring,  he  does  wonders. 

When  he  has  set  up  friendly  relations  with 
the  park  gardeners  by  accepting  their  plants, 
he  feels,  so  to  say,  one  of  themselves,  and 
drops  in  to  enjoy  all  the  features.  He  could 
tell  you,  for  instance,  all  about  that  magni- 
ficent sub-tropical  garden  at  Battersea  Park> 


gardp:ning  London. 


where  great  broad-leaved 
castor  oil  plants,  and 
palms,  and  other  plants 
with  handsome  foliage,  are 
grown  out  of  doors.  And 
it  is  surely  unnecessary  to 
say  that  he  is  in  close 
touch  with  the  beautiful 
chrysanthemum  shows 
which  are  so  great  a 
feature  of  nearly  all  the 
parks  in  October  and  No- 
vember. 

These  chrysanthemum 
displays  are  perhaps  the 
very  best  thing  that  the 
London  County  Council 
does  in  its  parks.  And  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that 
the  doors  of  the  chrysan- 
themum houses  open  at  that  period  which 
is  of  all  others  the  dreariest  in  London — 
when  the  autumn  rains  and  fogs  bring 
depression.  On  grey  November  days  the 
glorious  flowers  are  wonderfully  cheering,  for 
their  colours  are  as  rich  as  their  shapes  are 
quaint. 

You  may,  of  course,  hear  good  music  in 
the  parks  and  gardens  during  the  summer 
months,  as  well  as  survey  beautiful  flowers. 
Thus,  in  the  Victoria  Embankment  Gardens, 
near  Charing  Cross  Station,  the  jaded  Lon- 
doner can  smoke  his  pipe  with  the  cool  air 


IN   HYDE   PAKK    (NHAR    PARK    LANE). 


MUSIC   AND   FLOWERS    (VICTORIA    EMBANKMENT   GARDENS). 


from  the  adjacent  river  blowing  around  him, 
and  have  ears  and  eyes  tickled  by  sweet 
sounds  and  sights,  at  eventide.  He  does 
not  get  a  chair  for  nothing,  nor  is  free  re- 
freshment brought  round,  but  he  is  a  hopeful 
soul,  and  he  looks  to  the  future  with  con- 
fidence. 

Hyde  Park,  with  its  magnificent  series  of 
flower  beds  running  parallel  with  Park  Lane,  is 
perhaps  the  queen  of  public  places  for  garden- 
ing. Regent's  Park  has  glorious  beds  of  bulbs 
in  the  spring,  but  the  workers'  enclosures  of 
the  L.C.C.  cater  nobly  for  the  masses. 

While  there  is  life 
in  London's  gardens 
there  is  life  in  all  the 
city.  The  gentle  art 
of  floriculture  brings 
into  the  lives  of  the 
toilers  daily  joy  and 
refreshment.  The 
people  are  healthier, 
happier,  better,  for  the 
work  they  do  among 
their  plants.  Garden- 
ing is  the  sweet  hand- 
maid of  ennobled 
humanity.  The  scent 
of  flowers  comes  to 
each  and  all  of  them 
with  the  sweetness  of 
an  old  song's  echo — 
"  The  lilt  of  an  olden  lay." 


3IO 


A    CORO^ER'S    INQUEST    IN    LONDON. 

By  A.  BRAXTON  HICKS  and  C.  DUNCAN  LUCAS. 


IT    is   a  strange  scene — a  scene  of  infinite 
pathos — and  one   whicli,    although    it    is 
enacted  each  week-day  of  the  year,  brings 
into  play  every  emotion  known  to  man.     We 
are  in  the  Coroner's  Court.     A  few  days  back 
at    midnigfht    a    woman    went    over    London 


and  it  was  a  girl  who  tried  to  hold  him  back. 
And,  as  we  watch,  the  police  with  the  am- 
bulance bring  in  yet  another  "  case." 

Outside  the  mournful  drama  is  just  begin- 
ning. The  waiting  crowd  is  agog  with 
excitement  ;    for    the   evening    papers    have 


OUTSIDE   A   COKONER  S   COURT. 


Bridge.  Eighteen  hours  later  the  Thames 
police  discovered  her  body  attached  to  the 
haw.ser  of  a  collier  lying  off  Vauxhall.  All 
that  is  mortal  of  her  is  resting  in  the  iron 
container  in  the  mortuary  at  the  rear  of  the 
Court.  On  a  slab  close  by  are  the  clothes 
she  wore.  The  once  gay  hat  with  the  faded 
pink  flowers,  the  cheap  blouse,  the  torn  skirt, 
the  mud-stained  underclothing  —  they  are 
hardly  dry  yet.  The  vengeance  of  the  great 
river  is  complete. 

Two  others  are  in  the  house  of  death  :  an 
old  man  with  a  bullet  wound  in  his  back,  and 
a  young  one — he  jumped  in  front  of  a  train. 


made  the  best  of  the  latest  sensation,  and 
a  haggard-faced  man  has  passed  in  with 
an  officer  on  each  side  of  him.  A  dozen 
constables  with  an  inspector  or  two  are 
standing  by.  The  burly  man  with  the 
papers  under  his  arm  is  the  Coroner's  officer 
— a  kindly  soul.  On  him  has  fallen  the  duty 
of  inquiring  into  these  deaths.  In  search  of 
evidence  he  has  visited  the  relatives  of  the 
dead  in  their  homes  and  found  them  too  ill 
to  tell  their  tale.  He  has  combated  those 
who  desired  that  the  affair  should  be  hushed 
up  :  he  has  sifted  the  true  from  the  false. 
He   has   also   summoned   the  jury  and   the 


A    CORONER'S    INQUEST    IN    LONDON. 


3" 


POLICE   AMBULANCE    ENTERING    MORTUARY. 

witnesses,  and  issued  the  Coroner's  orders 
to  the  doctor  to  attend  and  perform  three 
post-mortem  examinations  in  return  for  the 
sum  of  six  guineas — two  guineas  per  body. 

But  to  the  business  of  the  day.  The 
Coroner  has  ahghted  from  his  cab  and  steps 
silently  into  the  mortuary.  Having  glanced 
at  the  deceased  the  representative  of  the 
Crown  enters  the  Court  preceded  by  his 
officer  and  followed  by  his  clerk. 

"  Gentlemen,  the  Coroner  !  "  exclaims  the 
officer,  and  every  one  rises 
to  his  feet.  At  the  far  end 
the  Coroner  seats  himself 
at  a  raised  desk,  and  below 
him  sits  his  clerk.  To  the 
left  are  the  jurors — twenty- 
three  of  them.  It  is  suf- 
ficient if  twelve  men  return 
a  verdict,  but  an  important 
•affair  and  one  which  may 
have  to  be  adjourned  has 
to  be  investigated,  and  the 
e.xtra  number  has  been 
summoned  as  a  pre- 
cautionary measure.  Were 
only  twelve  to  sit  when  the 
hearing  of  an  adjourned 
inquest  was  resumed  one 
juryman  might  be  absent 
owing  to  illness,  and  an- 
other might  belong  to  that 


cantankerous    class    who 

decline   to   agree   to   any 

sort  of  verdict :   in  which 

event   the   whole   terrible 

business  would  have  to  be 

commenced     over    again. 

These  jurors   receive  two 

shillings  a   day    for   their 

labours    and    are    chosen 

from     the    Parliamentary 

voting  lists,  the  occupants 

ofeachstreet  being  tackled 

in  turn.     They  cannot  be 

considered    overpaid,    for 

their   attendance    can    be   enforced    for 

the  entire  day  if  needs  be,  and  if  eight 

inquests  are  on  the  list  they  must  return 

eight  verdicts. 

Let  us  take  another  glimpse  of  the 
Court.  At  a  large  table  are  seated  the 
reporters  ;  in  the  centre  is  the  witness-box  ; 
while  at  the  back  are  rows  of  chairs  which 
are  occupied  by  members  of  the  public — 
dishevelled  women,  curiosity-mongers,  and 
the  like — and  those  witnesses  who  are  able 
to  control  their  feelings.  Witnesses  who  are 
inclined  to  be  hysterical  are  confined  in  the 
waiting-room — if  there  happens  to  be  one — 
until  they  are  required  to  give  evidence.  The 
Coroner,  who  can  trace  his  office  back  a 
thousand  years  and  more,  has  sworn  the 
following  oath  on  his  appointment : — 


(TiJiintB  of    ■)  rpQ 
lo  nil.  i 


London 


bv  Virtue  oF  a  WaiTant  under  the  Hand  and  Seal  of 

Esquire,  one  of  His  Majesty's  Coroners  for  the  County  of  London,  Voti  are 

liereby  summnneil  to  be  and  appear  before  liim  on  day,  the 

day  of  at  o'clock  precisely  in  the  noon 

at  the  Coroner's  Court 

then  and  there  to  give  evidence  on  His  Majesty's  behalf  touching  the  Death  of 


Herein  fail  not  at  your  peril.     Dated  this 


day 


ViuiM    SamBODj. 


No.  4. 


100 


CONSTABLR. 

[82 10 


WITNESS   SUMMONS. 


312 


LIVING    LONDON. 


"  I  solemnly,  sin- 
cerely, and  truly 
declare  and  affirm 
that  I  will  well  and 
truly  serve  our  Sove- 
reign Lord  the  King 
and  liis  liege  people 
in  the  office  of 
coroner  for  this  dis- 
trict of  ,and 
that  I  will  diligently 
and  truly  do  e\ery- 
thing  appertaining 
to  my  office  after  the 
best  of  my  power  for 
the  doing  of  right 
and  for  the  good  of 
the  inhabitants 
within  the  said  dis- 
trict." 

The  Coroner 
serves  the  King 
by  inquiring  into 
all  violent  or  un- 
natural or  sudden 
deaths    of    which 

the  causes  are  unknown,  and  any  deaths 
that  occur  in  the  prisons  in  his  district.  In 
addition,  when  gold  or  silver  coin  or  plate 
or  bullion  is  found  concealed,  the  owner 
being  unknown,  the  Coroner  holds  an  inquest 
on  them.  Like  dead  bodies  they  are  "  sat 
upon,"  and  if  the  verdict  is  "  treasure  trove  " 
they  become  the  property  of  the  Crown. 

This,  however,  en  passant,  for  the  Coroner 
is    in    his    Court.     With    a   number  of  docu- 


JURORS   PROCEEDING   TO   VIEW    A   BODY. 


ments  before  him  he  signals  to  his  officer, 
who  in  these  words,  addressed  to  the  jury, 
proclaims  the  opening  of  the  Court  : — 

"  Oyez,  Oyez,  You  good  men  of  this  district 
summoned  to  appear  here  this  day  to  inquire  for 
our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  when,  how,  and  by 
what  means  Maria  Black,  James  Spindler,  and 
William  Fowler  came  to  their  deaths,  answer  to 
your  names  as  you  shall  be  called,  every  man  at 
the  first  call,  upon  the  pain  and  peril  that  shall  fall 
thereon." 


Information   of    Witnesses    severally   taken    and    acknuw- 
ledgeii,   on    behalf   of    our   Sovereign    Lord   the   King,   at 


ill  the  parish  of 

the 

the  death  of 


day  of 


, touching 


t,efore  ,     Esquire,    one    of    His    Majesty's 

Coroners  for  the  said  County,  on  view  of  the  Body  of  the  said  Person  then  and 
there  lying  dead. 


on  oath  deposes  :— 


1  am 


1  identify  the  body  now  lying  dead  a«  that  of 


IDENTIKICATIOX    FORM. 


This  done  the  Coroner,  reading  from 
his  list,  calls  out  the  names  of  the  jurors, 
and  each  man  present  answers,  "  Yes." 
Now  and  then  an  objection  will  be 
raised.     There  is  one  to-day. 

"  Sir,"  cries  a  meek-looking  man  with 
a  flowing  white  beard,  "  my  presence 
here  is  useless.     I   am  stone  deaf" 

In  a  low  whisper  the  Coroner  answers : 

"  Then  you  may  go." 

With  surprising  alacrity  the  deaf  one 
hastens  to  depart,  but  the  strong  hand 
of  the  officer,  at  a  sign  from  the  Coroner, 
is  placed  on  his  shoulder  and  he  is 
ordered  to  resume  his  seat. 

There  is  one  ab.sentee.  A  juror  has 
been  summoned  imperatively  to  the  City 
on  business.  The  Coroner  knows  that 
business  !     And   when  the  missing  one 


A    CORONER'S    INQUEST    IN    LONDON. 


313 


returns  to  the  bosom  of  his  family  on  com- 
pletion of  his  business,  he  discovers  that  his 
morning's  recreation  has  cost  him  forty 
shilling  pieces. 

But  though  a  few  perhaps  have  given  a 
little  trouble,  these  jurymen  to-day  are  honest 
fellows — mostly. 

The  following  is  the  oath  administered  to 
jurymen : — 

"  You  shall  diligently  inquire  and  true  present- 
ment make  of  all  such  matters  and  things  as  shall 
be  here  given  you  in  charge,  on  behalf  of  our 
Sovereign   Lord   the   King,   touching  the   death   of 

,  now  lying  dead,  of  whose  body  you  shall 

have  the  view:  and  shall,  without  fear  or  favour, 
affection  or  ill-will,  a  true  verdict  give  according  to 
the  evidence,  and  to  the  best  of  your  skill  and 
knowledge,  so  help  you  God." 

The  oath  taken,  the  jurymen  leave  the 
Court  and  file  into  the 
mortuary  chamber, 
where  they  view  the 
dead.  Some  look  at 
the  bodies  intently  ; 
others  pass  through 
the  abode  of  death  as 
swiftly  as  possible. 
On  their  return  to 
the  Court  the  real 
business  begins. 

"  Walter  Black," 
says  the  Coroner,  call- 
ing the  first  witness. 

A  man  of  forty,  hollow-eyed,  white  and 
trembling,  palpably  a  hard  drinker,  quits  his 
seat  next  to  that  of  a  crying  woman — a  sister 
of  the  dead  woman  on  whose  body  the  first 
inquest  is  to  be  held — and  steps  into  the  box. 
The  thoughtful  officer  advances,  clutches  the 
right  arm  of  the  witness  to  support  him,  and 
administers  the  oath  : — 

"  The  evidence  which  you  shall  give  to  this  inquest 
on  behalf  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  touching 
the  death  of  Maria  Black  shall  be  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  So  help 
you  God." 

The  man  kisses  the  Testament  and  the 
Coroner  examines  him  : 

"  You  are  Walter  Black,  and  you  identify 
the  body  of  the  woman  which  you  have  seen 
lying  in  the  mortuary  as  that  of  your  late 
wife,  Maria  Black,  who,  I  understand,  was  a 
German,  speaking  very  little  English  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 
40 


"  You  last  saw  her  on  the  morning  of 
Wednesday,  the  13th  inst.  On  the  Friday 
following  you  heard  that  she  had  been  .seen 
by  William  Presence  to  jump  off  the  parapet 
of  London  Bridge.  As  she  did  not  return 
home  on  the  Wednesday,  did  you  inquire  as 
to  her  whereabouts  ?  " 

At  this  question  all  eyes  are  focus.sed  on 
the  figure  in  the  box.  The  jury  lean  forward : 
the  clerk  waits  pen  in  hand. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  the  witness, 
and  the  Coroner  repeats  the  question. 

"  N-no,  sir,"  the  man  stammers  at  length. 


A   CORONER    HANDING   BURIAL   ORDER   TO    HIS 
OFFICER. 

''  The  fact  is,  sir,  I  was  not  anxious  about 
her." 

"  Not  anxious  about  her ! "  repeats  the 
Coroner  sternly.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
that  ?  I  won't  have  anything  kept  back,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  sir,"  says  the  witness,  toying  nerv- 
ously with  his  fingers,  "  my  wife  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  away  for  two  or  three  days. 
On  this  occasion  I  concluded  that  she  had 
gone  to  visit  a  friend." 

"  When  she  left  you,  had  you  quarrelled  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir." 

"  Were  you  both  sober  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  The  fact  is,  you  didn't  care  what  became 


314 


LIVING    LONDON. 


of  your  wife.  Have  you  anything  to  ask 
the  witness  ? "  says  the  Coroner,  turning  to 
the  jury. 

The  answer  is  in  the  negative.  Walter 
Black  steps  down,  and  William  Presence 
takes  his  place. 

William  Presence,  stout  and  florid,  relates 
how  he  saw  the  woman  gazing  at  the  mudd)' 
water  below  the  bridge — she  was  standing 
on  one  of  the  stone  ledges  as  Big  Ben  tolled 
the  hour  of  midnight. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  your  death,  surely," 
he  observed. 

Then  thinking  that  he  might  possibly  be 
mistaken,  and  being  in  a  hurry  to  catch  his 
last  train  home  he  walked  on.  An  instant 
later  he  heard  a  splash  and  dashing  to  the 
parapet  he  saw  a  body  engulfed.  He  hailed 
the  police,  a  boat  at  once  put  off  from  the 
stairs  below,  but  Maria  Black  had  gone  to  her 
doom  with  the  tide. 

John  Learoyd,  blue-eyed,  bronzed  and 
stalwart,  is  the  third  witness.  He  is  of  the 
Thames  police,  and  was  out  in  his  launch  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Vauxhall  when  he 
espied  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  mass  of 
ragged  clothes  clinging  to  the  anchor  chain 
of  the  collier  Maude,  of  Tynemouth.  He 
put  his  helm  to  starboard  and  found  a  body 
— "  the  body,  sir,  I  have  seen  in  the 
mortuary." 

John  Learoyd  is  followed  by  Martha  Watch- 
well.  The  Blacks  were  her  lodgers,  and  she 
saw  Maria  Black  when  she  left  the  house 
for  the  last  time.  She  was  drunk,  and  so 
was  Walter  Black,  though  he  swore  he  was 
sober. 

"  They  used  to  go  on  the  drink  for  a 
week,"  she  explains. 

Constable  124  ZZ  is  sworn.  At  five 
o'clock  on  Monday  afternoon  he  met  Maria 
Black  clinging  to  a  lamp-post,  drunk  and 
incapable.  He  escorted  her  to  the  police 
station  and  she  was  placed  in  a  cell. 

"  Inspector  Toogood,"  says  the  Coroner. 

The  tall  man  tells  his  story.  He  went  on 
duty  at  eight  o'clock,  and  finding  the  prisoner 
sober  at  ten  he  let  her  out  on  her  own 
recognisances. 

'  How  is  it  you  didn't  keep  her  ?  "  asks 
the  Coroner. 

"  Well,  sir,"  .says  the  officer,  "  we  generally 
let  the  drunks  out  when  they're  sober  if  they 


haven't  been  disorderly.  We  get  a  good 
many  drunks  about  our  parts." 

"  Had  she  time  to  get  from  the  station  to 
London  Bridge  by  midnight?"  queries  the 
Coroner. 

"  Plenty  of  time,  sir." 

"  And  I  suppose  she  could  have  procured 
more  drink  on  the  way." 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

The  cause  of  death  demands  no  further 
elucidation.  A  brief  summing-up  by  the 
Coroner,  and  the  jury  are  asked  for  their 
verdict.  They  return  it  without  the  least 
hesitation.  In  less  than  sixty  seconds  the 
foreman  replies  : 

"  Suicide  whilst  temporarily  insane." 

The  form  is  made  out,  each  juryman  signs 
his  name  on  it,  and  another  inquest  is  over. 

Walter  Black  gives  a  sigh  of  relief,  but 
there  is  not  a  tear  in  his  bloodshot,  bleared 
eyes.  Five  minutes  later  you  may  recognise 
him  at  the  bar  of  the  "  Crown  and  Thistle  " 
round  the  corner — fifty  yards  from  the  spot 
where  the  body  of  his  dead  wife  lies — with 
a  glass  of  brandy  before  him.  He  is  one  of 
Nature's  reptiles.  And  in  half  an  hour  you 
will  see  him  standing  within  the  precincts  of 
the  Court — in  a  dark  corner  for  choice,  for 
the  cockney  crowd  has  not  taken  kindly  to 
him — waiting  for  the  order  for  burial,  which 
must  bear  the  Coroner's  signature. 

The  demon  drink — what  a  part  it  plays  in 
these  Courts!  The  role  is  difficult  to  describe, 
for  in  the  midst  of  tragedy  there  is  comedy. 
There  is  no  comedy  in  the  Court  to-day,  but 
take  a  typical  case.  A  man  has  perhaps  died 
a  violent  death,  and  a  post-mortem  examina- 
tion has  disclosed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  hard 
drinker. 

"  Was  your  husband  a  temperate  man  ?  '' 
asks  the  Coroner  of  the  widow  in  the  witness- 
box. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  is  the  frequent  answer,  "  he  was 
a  teetotaller." 

The  Coroner  then  adopts  a  different 
course. 

"  Are  you  a  teetotaller  ? "  he  asks  the 
woman. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replies.  "  I  drink  beer — a 
couple  of  glasses  a  day." 

"  Well,  what  did  your  hu.sband  drink  ?  " 

"  He  drank  nothing  but  brandy,  sir,"  is  the 
answer,  "  but  he  was  a  perfect  teetotaller." 


3i6 


LIVING    LONDON. 

BIRTHS  AND  DEATHS  REGISTRATION  ACT,  1874. 


CORONER'S   ORDER  for  BURIAL, 


To  b«  given  bj  the  Coroner  to  the  RelatiTe  of  the  Deceased  or  other  person  who  causes  the  Body  to  be  buried,  or 
to  the  Undertaker  or  other  Person  having  charge  of  the  Funeral. 


I,   the  umUriigned,   Coroner  jar    the- 


-of- 


Do  Aer«(y  authorise  the   Burial  of  the  Body   of^ 

aged  about which  tuu  been  viewed  by  the  Inquest  Jury. 


Witneu  my  hand  this— 


-day  of— 


-  Coroner, 


*•*  The  Coroner  mutt  not  Issue  this  Order  except  upon  holding  an  Inquest. 

The  UndertaVer  or  other  Peraoo  reoeiring  this  Order  most  deliver  it  to  the  Miniater  or  Officiating  Penon  who  buries  or  performe 
any  foneral  or  religions  serrice  for  the  Burial  of  the  Dead  Body ;  or,  in  Iho  case  of  a  barial  under  the  Burial  Laws  Amendment  Actf 
1880,  to  the  *'  relative,  friend,  or  legal  represeotatire  of  the  deceased,  hariog  the  charge  of,  or  being  responsible  for  the  Burial  " 
(«3j.) 


Let  us  return  to  the  Court.  The  jury  are 
now  about  to  decide  as  to  how  the  old  man, 
whose  body  also  lies  in  the  mortuary,  met  with 
his  death.  The  crowd  outside  are  swarming 
at  the  doors,  and  twenty  constables  are 
employed  in  keeping  them  back.  The 
deceased  was  well  known  in  the  district  as  a 
generous  man.  A  slender  figure  arrayed  in 
black  advances  towards  the  box.  It  is  the 
widow.  Gently  assisted  by  the  Coroner,  she 
describes  in  a  broken  voice  how  her  nephew 
called  upon  the  deceased  and  demanded 
money.  He  had  had  ten  pounds  the  week 
before  to  go  to  Canada  but  had  spent  it  in 
riotous  living.  The  interview  was  a  stormy 
one,  a  quarrel  arose,  and  the  next  thing  she 
heard  was  the  report  of  firearms. 

That  is  all  the  woman  can  relate.  Becom- 
ing hysterical  she  is  conducted  to  the  waiting- 
room  to  regain  her  composure,  and  the  inquest 
is  adjourned.  In  half  an  hour  she  is  brought 
in  again  and  proceeds  with  her  evidence. 
Little  by  little  the  Coroner  extracts  every 
detail  of  the  ghastly  tragedy. 

"  John  Space,"  calls  the  Coroner.  "  I 
understand  he  wi.shes  to  give  evidence." 

There  is  a  movement  at  the  rear  of  the 
Court,  and  a  man — with  dissipation  written 
large  on  every  feature — comes  forward  in 
charge  of  two  ofiRcers.  The  Coroner  cautions 
him,  for  being  under  arrest  he  need  not  speak 
unless  he  wishes.  But  he  is  thoroughly  .self- 
posse.s.sed,  and  intends  to  .save  his  neck  if  he 
can.  Duly  sworn  he  informs  the  Court  that 
the  death  of  his  uncle  was  the  result  of  an 
accident.      The   latter   had    threatened   him, 


had  snatched  up  a  loaded  revolver  which  was 
lying  by — had  pointed  it  at  him,  in  fact. 
A  struggle  followed,  the  weapon  exploded, 
and  the  old  man  fell. 

"  But  the  deceased  was  shot  in  the  back," 
remarks  the  Coroner. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,"  is  the  reply. 

The  views  of  two  other  witnesses  are 
different.  The  doctor  declares  that  the 
deceased  could  not  have  shot  himself:  while 
a  dealer  in  second-hand  articles  identifies  the 
prisoner  as  the  man  who  purchased  the 
revolver  of  him  a  week  before. 

There  is  a  murmur  in  the  Court  which  is 
instantly  suppressed,  and  the  jury  consider 
their  verdict.  Ten  minutes  later  they  declare 
that  John  Space  is  guilty  of  murder. 

The  Court  clears  at  once.  There  is  a  rush 
for  the  front  of  the  building,  and  with  the 
utmost  despatch  the  prisoner  is  bundled  out. 
An  angry  .sea  of  faces  greets  him  as  he 
emerges,  curses  are  hurled  at  him  from  right 
and  left,  but  fortunately  for  him,  as  he  goes 
towards  the  waiting  cab,  he  has  the  protec- 
tion of  the  police.  The  cab  door  closes,  a 
savage  yell  goes  up,  the  crowd  presses  closer 
and  closer,  but  Jehu  whips  up  his  steed  and 
one  more  man  is  off  to  Bri.xton  pri.son.  A 
missile  is  thrown  at  the  vehicle  perhaps,  a 
youngster  or  two  cling  on  behind,  and  the 
mcjb  disperses. 

When  the  third  inquest  has  been  held  the 
Coroner's  labours  are  practically  over.  All 
that  he  has  now  to  do  is  to  give  the  doctor 
his  fee,  the  jurymen  their  two  shillings  apiece, 
fill    in   the    necessary    forms    relating    to    the 


A    CORONER'S    INQUEST    IN    LONDON. 


317 


business  of  the  day,  and  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  inquest.  This  last  he  does  out  of  his  own 
pocket,  but  he  is  reimbursed  ultimately  by 
the  local  authorities. 

This,  however,  has  been  an  easy  day.  On 
occasions  a  Coroner  will  hold  as  many  as 
nineteen  inquests,  and  to  obtain  a  fair  idea 
of  his  work  one  must  spend  a  day  in  his 
office.  He  is  remunerated  on  a  basis  of 
thirty  shillings  per  inquest,  but  out  of  his 
income  he  has  to  keep  a  clerk  and  pay  all 
his  travelling  expenses.  The  expenses  of  a 
Coroner  may  be  reckoned  as  from  one-third 
to  one-fourth  of  the  salary. 

Then  let  us  consider  the  responsibilities. 
The  Coroner  must  get  at  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth.  His  Court  is  the  Court  of  the  People. 
To  separate  the  facts  from  the  lies  is  no  easy 
task.  A  favourite  trick  of  suicides  is  to 
leave  behind  them  a  note  accusing  of  a  crime 
some  person  against  whom  they  have  a 
grudge.  The  accuser  being  dead  it  is 
impossible  to  ascertain  what  foundation  there 
is  for  the  charge.  And  then  there  are  the 
letters  of  suicides — letters  sent  to  the  Coroner, 
and  which  he  is  bound  to  read.  One  of  these 
communications  was  spread  over   five  quires 


of  notepaper,  and  all  that  was  intelligible 
in  it  was  that  the  author  intended  to  destroy 
himself  because  he  was  dissatisfied  with  his 
features. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  suicide  in 
general  ?  Suicides  often  show  much  method 
in  their  madness.  We  recall  the  case  of 
a  doctor  who  one  night  had  a  hot  bath. 
While  he  was  in  the  water  he  drew  a  razor 
across  his  throat,  placed  it  on  the  side,  and 
died  quietly.  He  didn't  want  a  mess.  A 
certain  chemist,  desiring  to  create  as  little 
fuss  as  possible,  opened  a  vein  in  his  arm, 
and  holding  it  over  a  basin  bled  silently  to 
death.  Strange,  too,  was  the  death  of  a 
constable  who,  wishing  to  make  doubly  sure 
of  destruction,  tied  a  rope  round  his  neck 
and  attached  the  other  end  to  a  rail  of  one 
of  the  bridges  spanning  the  Thames.  He 
was  both  strangled  and  drowned. 

Over  eight  thousand  inquests  are  held  in 
London  every  year,  and  about  four  hundred 
and  fifty  of  these  are  cases  of  suicide. 
Probably  in  every  instance  the  victim  was  of 
unsound  mind  when  he  committed  the  deed. 
Felo  de  se  may  be  said  to  be  practically 
unknown. 


REMOVING   A   PRISONER. 


3i8 


BILLINGSGATE  :    LANDING   FISH. 


ROIND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS. 


By  ARTHUR  RUTLAND. 


<;< 


^OME  time  in  the  night,  two 
O  steamers,  fitted  with  ice 
tanks  and  carrying  cargoes 
from  fishing  towns  along  the 
eastern  and  north-eastern  coasts, 
come  in  up  the  Thames,  and 
are  moored  under  the  flare  of 
the  lamps  that  burn  till  morning 
at  the  back  of  Billingsgate 
Market.  No  sooner  are  they 
moored,  with  the  ripples  flap- 
ping sleepily  against  their  idle 
keels,  than  they  settle  into 
silence  and  somnolence,  ex- 
cept for  the  lessening  hiss  of 
steam  from  their  engines, 
and  the  unwinking  stare  of 
the  lanterns  that  watch  fore  and  aft  until 
dawn  rises  over  the  river,  putting  out 
simultaneously  the  lights  on  anchored  boats 
and   barges  and   the  stars  in   the   sky. 

If  you  go  round  to  the  front  of  the  market, 
even  as  late  as  a  quarter  to  five  this  summer 
morning,  there  is  little  or  no  life  at  all  in 
Lower  Thames  Street ;  but  just  before  the 
hour  sounds  from  the  neighbouring  steeples 
a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  grinding  of  wheels 
on  the  stony  road  jar  through  the  stillness, 
and  a  ponderous  railway  van,  heavily 
burdened,  sweeps  down  Fish  Street  Hill 
and    pulls    up    gallantly    opposite    the    yet 


POKTEK    WITH 
EELS. 


among  tricklin: 


closed  gates  of  the  Market.  You  hear  a 
similar  van  rattling  after  it ;  and  nearer, 
making  more  sedate  haste  along  Thames 
Street,  glides  a  private  brougham,  which 
stops  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  crazy, 
tumbledown  old  fish  shops,  and  a  substantial, 
prosperous-looking  merchant  alights  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth,  and,  calling  a  "  Good- 
morning,  Thomas,"  to  the  coachman,  who 
touches  his  hat  and  drives  off,  lets  himself 
in  with  a  latchkc}-.  You  may  see  him 
presently,  when  his  shutters  are  do\\'n,  dis- 
guised in  a  white  smock  and  a  cloth  cap, 
writing    at  his   desk  ^ 

' '    „  con- 
of  newly 
arrived   fish    and 
shouting     lustily     to 
perspiring  assistants. 

Directly  Billings- 
gate unfastens  its 
gates  the  streets  in 
its  vicinity  are  all 
alive.  It  is  as  if  some 
wizard  haunting  the 
deserted  spot  mut- 
tered a  cabalistic 
word,  and,  hey, 
presto !  public-houses 
and  coffee-houses  are 
wide  open  ;  shops  of 


PORTER   WITH   COD. 


ROUND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS. 


319 


fish  salesmen  and  factors  on  Fish  Street  Hill, 
St  Mary-at-Hill,  and  Thames  Street  are 
stripped  of  their  shutters,  and  high-packed 
vehicles,  mysteriously  materialised,  are  lining 
the  kerbs  before  them  ;  the  two  railway  vans 
outside  the  Market  are  rapidly  multiplying 
into  so  many  that  the  roadway  is  getting 
impassable  ;  fish  porters  innumerable  hurtle, 
as  it  were,  from  the  clouds  and  up  from  the 
earth,  as  if  every  paving-stone  were  a  trap- 
door, and  swarming  everywhere  in  white 
smocks  and  round,  iron-hard  hats,  designed 


stream  one  after  the  other  with  boxes  on 
their  heads,  lidless  boxes  crusted  with  ice 
that  is  melting  and  dribbling  through  on 
the  bearers. 

By  this,  the  interior  of  the  Market  has 
lost  its  barren  look.  The  stalls,  each  of 
which  is  merely  a  desk  and  a  floor  space, 
are  becoming  congested  with  stacks  of 
boxes ;  with  barrels  of  eels,  and  barrels 
and  loose  mountains  of  lobsters,  mussels, 
whelks ;  with  salmon  and  cod  ranged  on 
the   stones   or  on   raised    boards,   or,  in  the 


A   CORNER   OF    LEADENHALL   MARKET. 


to  cushion  heavy  burdens,  are  deftly  unload- 
ing all  the  carts.  There  are  continuous 
processions  of  such  porters  trotting  into  the 
Market  with  oozy,  trickling  boxes  on  their 
heads,  and  there  are  continuous  processions 
trotting  out  of  the  market,  handing  metal 
"tallies  to  the  carters  by  way  of  receipts, 
hoisting  fresh  boxes  on  to  their  heads,  and 
joining  one  or  other  of  the  processions 
trotting  in. 

If  you  pass  through  the  cool,  dim,  sloppy 
Market  and  out  on  to  the  wooden  platform 
at  the  rear,  you  see  the  steamers  here  being 
unloaded  in  like  manner.  A  broad  iron 
bridge  slopes  down  to  them,  and  down  one 
side  of  the  bridge  porters  are  hurrying 
empty-handed,  and  up  the  other  side  porters 


shops  that  occupy  the  two  sides  of  the 
market,  on  shiny,  slippery  slabs.  There  are 
bloaters  from  Yarmouth ;  there  are  kippers 
from  Peterhead  and  Stornoway ;  there  are 
all  manner  of  fish  from  Hull,  Grimsby, 
Milford  Haven,  Fleetwood — all  manner  of 
places  round  the  British  Isles  that  have 
any  fish  to  send  anywhere  seem  to  have 
sent  them  here. 

The  bustling  and  shouting  increase  until 
by  half-past  six,  or  thereabouts,  the  tide  of 
business  is  at  the  full,  and  beginning  to 
turn.  The  railway  vans  have  gone,  and 
other  railway  and  carriers'  and  fishmongers' 
carts  that  have  been  hovering  in  Eastcheap 
and  other  outlying  streets,  and  the  costers 
who    have    been  clustering    their  barrows  at 


320 


LIVING    LONDON. 


COVENT   GARDEN  :    SHELLING   PEAS. 


the  lower  end  of  Love  Lane,  are  swooping 
in  to  bargain  and  buy,  or  to  carry  away 
consignments  of  fish  already  ordered,  and 
the  Market  is  emptying  as  rapidly  as  it 
filled. 

Noon  is  not  more  than  two  hours  gone 
when  Billingsgate  is  practically  shut  again  ; 
the  fish  shops  round  about  look  as  if  they 
had  been  looted  by  an  invading  army ; 
fish  porters  lounge  at  street  corners,  or  in 
public-houses  and  coffee-shops,  and  vast- 
booted  men  tramp  clumsily  inside  the 
Market  and  in  front  of  it,  trailing  snaky 
hoses  and  washing  the  stones. 

Three  minutes'  walk  east  of  Billingsgate, 
whence  London  gets  most  of  its  fish,  and 
you  are  in  Leadenhall  Market,  whence 
London  gets  a  good  deal  of  its  poultry. 
Billingsgate  does  not  start  work  in  these 
days  .so  early  as  it  used  to  ;  but  it  is  an 
hour  ahead  of  Leadenhall,  where  as  late  as 
si.x  o'clock  the  only  sign  of  life  is  in  the 
large  centre  arcade :  here  a  covered  van 
has  just  drawn  up  with  a  cock  crowing 
derisively  from  somewhere  inside,  and  the 
driver  is  making  remarks  to  the  policeman 
who  stands  under  the  clock  gazing  round 
as  if  he  could  not  make  out  what  had  become 
of  everybody. 

In    Leadenhall    there    are    no    stalls ;     it 


is  a  maze  of  attenuated  streets,  and  every 
salesman  has  his  .shop.  It  begins  later  than 
Billingsgate,  and  it  finishes  later  too.  From 
seven  to  nine  it  is  at  its  busiest,  but  it  does 
not  show  any  marked  signs  of  slackness  until 
after  noon.  Besides  being  greatly  patronised 
by  local  hotel  and  dining-room  caterers,  it 
does  an  appreciable  trade  with  thrifty  City 
clerks  and  housekeepers  who  live  within  easy 
distances.  Perhaps  the  requirements  of  these 
customers  have  broadened  its  ideas,  for  it  is 
not  so  bigoted  in  its  view  of  poultry  but 
that  it  accommodates  a  butcher  or  two, 
a  few  fruiterers  and  greengrocers,  a  publican, 
and  a  newsagent. 

But  when  all  is  said,  in  Leadenhall  you 
come  back  to  poultry.  You  may  purchase 
select  breeds  of  dogs  there,  it  is  true ;  on 
the  pavement  before  two  or  three  shops  in 
cages  one  on  top  of  the  other  there  are 
puppies  who  intermittently  romp  together 
and  stand  adding  their  yelpings  to  the 
general  uproar.  You  may  purchase  hares 
too,  and  rabbits,  dead  or  alive.  You  may 
even  acquire  a  swan,  if  your  taste  runs  in 
that  direction,  for  you  will  see  specimens 
standing  resentfully  in  large  cages  that 
are  yet  not  large  enough  for  them  to  stretch 
their  necks.  Also,  there  is  one  shop  devoted 
to  every  variety  of  singing  bird. 


ROUND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS. 


321 


Nevertheless,  the  commoner  class  of  poultry 
predominates.  You  see  it  naked  and  dead 
dangling  frorn  hooks  iand  lying  on  shelves 
inside  the  shops ;  you  see  it  befeathered  and 
very  much  alive  imprisoned  in  wicker  crates 
and  wooden  cages  piled  about  the  paver 
ments  outside  the  shops,  and  there  are 
moments  when  the  combined  crowing  of 
cocks,  clucking  of  nervous   hens,  and  quack- 


bulgy  hampers  in  both  arms,  which  con- 
tributions are  accumulated  in  their  vehicles 
until  they  have  obtained  what  they  came 
for,  or  as  much  of  it  as  they  can  get,  and 
are  glad  to  be  turning  their  horses'  heads 
homeward. 

Amidst  all  the  uproar  of  the  market,  and 
whilst  buyers  are  crushing  and  elbowing 
each  other   up  and  down  the  narrow  alleys 

that  run  through  the 
wilderness  of  mis- 
cellaneous produce 
gathered  here  to  be 
sold,  you  come 
across,  in  summer,  a 
group  of  women  in 
a  quiet  corner  behind 
a  rampart  of  baskets, 
placidly  shelling  peas 
into  sieves   and   cir- 


ing  of  ducks  pretty  well  submerge  every 
other  sound. 

Farther  east  is  Spitalfields  Market  ; 
to  the  south,  just  over  London  Bridge, 
is  the  Borough  Market ;  but  westward 
is  Covent  Garden,  that  surpasses  these 
in  their  own  line,  and  is,  besides,  the 
largest  flower  market  anywhere  in  or 
near  London. 

So  enormous  is  the  amount  of  business 
done  each  morning  at  "  the  Garden "  that 
it  is  impossible  for  nearly  half  the  buyers 
going  there  to  drive  up  within  sight  of  it. 
The  streets  leading  into  it,  and  many  that 
branch  therefrom  or  pass  the  ends  of 
them,  are  literally  blocked  with  a  tangle 
of  greengrocers'  carts,  while  the  greengrocers, 
aided  by  regular  or  casual  assistants,  are 
momentarily  struggling  out  frorn  the  hurly- 
burly  of  the  Market,  propelling  barrow-  or 
truck-loads  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  or 
balancing  columns  of  round  baskets  on 
their    heads,    or    staggering    along 


41 


hugging 


SCENES   AT    PEDLAKS'    FAIR. 

cular  tins  ;  and  by-and-by,  outside  the 
building,  among  a  litter  of  cabbage  leaves 
and  hemmed  in  by  waiting  carts,  you 
discover  a  numerous  company  of  other 
women  similarly  engaged. 

They  make  two  little  islands  of  indus- 
trious repose  in  this  welter  of  tumultuous 
trafficking.  The  only  other  spot  that  is 
as  peaceful  just  now  is  the  auction  room 
over  the  road — a  bare,  spacious  hall,  with 
wooden-canopied,  pulpit-looking  erections 
placed  at  intervals  down  either  side  of  it 
There  are  no  auctions  in  progress  at  present, 


w 

Q 

« 

o 

H 

> 
o 
o 

H 
<! 

t/) 

o 

H 

o 

< 


ROUND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS. 


323 


but  notices  written  on  giant  slates  tell  you 
that  there  are  going  to  be  several  towards 
noon,  and  later. 

When  you  come  back  to  attend  these, 
rude  tiers  of  seats  have  been  pulled  round 
into  three  sides  of  a  square  before  cer- 
tain of  the  pulpits,  in  each  of  which  an 
auctioneer's  clerk  sits  writing  busily,  and 
an  auctioneer  stands  lifting  up  his  voice  and 
bringing  down  his  hammer  with  undeniable 
effect.  Bunches  of  bananas  swathed  in 
basketwork  and  matting,  long  boxes  of 
pears,  of  apples,  of  pineapples,  are  hauled 
in  quick  succession  up  on  to  the  table 
immediately  below  the  auctioneer.  "  Show 
'em  !  "  he  cries  mechanically.  His  porters 
tear  open  the  matting  or  rip  off  the  box 
lids,  and  eagerly  eye  the  buyers  and  others 
perched  row  above  row  on  the  tiers, 
ferociously  reiterating  the  auctioneer's  cry 
of  "  Now  then  !     Who  bids  ?  " 

The  bidding  is  prompt  but  cautious  ; 
nearly  everything  is  bought,  and  bought 
cheaply ;  and  money  and  goods  change 
hands  with  such  facility  that  another  "  lot " 
is  put  up,  bid  for,  and  sold  before  the 
previous  one  has  been  carried  beyond  the 
door. 

Meanwhile,  the  Flower  Market  closes  at 
nine,  so,  of  course,  you  have  been  there 
before  returning  for  the  auctions.  The 
view  you  get  from  either  of  its  immense 
doorways  is  like  the  first  bewildering 
glimpse  of  the  transformation  scene  at  a 
theatre.  Against  a  background  of  broad- 
leaved  palms  and  multitudinous  flowerless 
plants,  billowy  clouds  of  snow-white  blooms 
mingle  with  stretches  of  skyey  blue,  shot 
through  here  and  there  with  flaming  reds 
and  yellows  and  purples,  all  in  a  lavish 
setting  of  every  shade  and  tinting  of 
green. 

The  blended  fragrances  within  are  suffocat- 
ingly sweet ;  the  aisles  of  vivid,  varied  colour 
dazzle  the  eye  almost  as  sunlight  will ;  and, 
strangely  contrasted  with  their  surroundings, 
the  salesmen,  buyers,  and  porters  might 
be  merely  scene-shifters  preparing  the  trans- 
formation scene,  and  the  flower-girls  flocking 
about  the  cut-flower  stalls  might  be  blowzy, 
bedraggled  fairies  not  yet  dressed  for  their 
parts. 

Some   of  them    are    very  old    flower-girls, 


and  some  of  them  very  young ;  they  are 
all  keen  bargainers,  and  go  off  with  armfuls, 
or  basketfuls,  or  apronfuls  of  scent  and 
loveliness  that,  within  an  hour,  they  will 
have  wired  into  penny  and  twopenny  bunches, 
and  be  selling  to  spruce  City  men  coming 
into  town  to  their  offices. 

Nothing  could  be  much  farther  removed 
from  the  beauty  and  delicacy  and  fragrance 
of  that  floral  mart  than  the  unloveliness 
and  comparative  squalor  of  the  Cattle  Market 
at  Islington. 

Two  mornings  of  every  week,  winter  and 


SHOWI.NG  THE  DONKEY  S  PACES  (CATTLE 
MARKET). 

summer,  before  the  world  at  large  is  awake, 
from  lairs  at  Hackney  Wick  and  Mile  End, 
and  from  railway  termini  that  have  received 
them  after  long  journeys  out  of  green  country 
places,  droves  of  sheep  and  horned  cattle, 
splashed  with  the  mire  of  London  roads 
and  hungering  for  the  fields,  are  shepherded 
through  the  iron  gateways  into  the  broad, 
paved  Market  square. 

In  company  with  a  coffee-shop,  a  bank 
or  so,  some  railway  depots,  and  a  reading- 
room  for  drovers,  the  Market  clerk  has  his 
office  under  the  clock-tower  in  the  middle 
of  the  square,  and  on  one  side  of  the  tower 
sheep  huddle  patiently  in  their  pens,  and 
on    the     other    bullocks     fattened     for    the 


LIVING    LONDON. 


NEAU   SMITHKIELD   MEAT   MARKET. 

slaughter  and  cows  destined  for  the  dairy 
farm  stand  in  long  rows  tethered  to  the 
top  rails  of  their  stalls,  and  keep  up  a 
ceaseless,  monotonous  moaning,  punctuated 
occasionally  b}^  a  resounding  bellow. 

In  and  out  among  the  sheep,  and  in 
and  out  among  the  horned  cattle,  go  bronzed, 
farmer-looking  men  and  florid,  stolid,  butcher- 
looking  men,  critical  of  eye  and  cunning 
with  the  forefinger,  which  they  will  dig 
knowingly  into  the  ribs  or  flanks  of  beasts 
they  have  a  mind  to.  And  when  a  man 
has  chosen  his  sheep  a  drover  and  his  dog 
go  off  with  them,  and  when  he  has  chosen 
his  bullocks  a  drover  goes  off  with  them 
also,  the  buyer  sometimes  whipping  out  a 
pair  of  scissors  and  snipping  his  initials 
in  the  hair  on  the  animals'  backs  before 
he  loses  sight  of  them.  Some  of  them 
are  driven  away  along  the  roads  to  suburban 
grazing  lands  or  slaughter-houses ;  most 
of  them  make  a  shorter  journey  of  it  to 
the  neighbouring  abattoirs. 

On  other  days  of  the  week  Hay  and 
Straw,  and  Pig  and  Poultry  Markets  are 
held  here  ;  and  on  I'ridays  there  is  a 
Market  for  the  sale  of  horses  and  carts. 
Friday,  too,  is  the  great  day  of  the  Pedlars' 
Fair,  when  up  the  steps  and  under  the 
roof  of  the  Hide  Market,  and  on  the 
ample  margin  of  stones  round  the  cattle 
pens,      you       may       enjoy      reminiscences 


of  Petticoat  Lane 
with  the  yelling 
and  hubbub  all  left 
out. 

The  Hide  Mar- 
ket  and  that 
margin  of  stones 
are  strewn  and 
littered  as  if  there 
had  been  a  volcanic 
eruption  near  by, 
and  the  lava  had 
come  pelting  down 
in  the  form  of  coats  and  trousers,  and  second- 
hand furniture,  crockery,  glassware^  rusty 
stoves,  odd  door-knobs,  indescribable  salvages 
of  ironmongery,  ladies'  dresses  and  children's 
toys,  beds  and  bedding,  carpets,  doormats, 
window-cuTtains,  so  that  as  you  pick  your 
way  through,  you  do  not  know  you  have 
missed  the  footpath  till  you  find  yourself 
astray  in  an  impenetrable  jungle  of  hosiery 
or  cutlery,  or  stumbling  over  meat-screens 
and  fryinp'-pans,  and  amazing  collections 
of  decrepit  tinware. 

Simultaneously,  the  horse  and  cart  fair  is 
raging  among  the  cattle-pens,  and  every  few 
minutes  spectators  wandering  thereabouts 
scatter  suddenly  to  make  way  for  a  sprightly 
quadruped  whose  paces  are  being  tried  for  the 
delectation  of  a  possible  purchaser.  Neither 
horses  nor  carts  are  exactly  new ;  and  the 
"  horses  "  include  donkeys,  and  the  carts  any- 
thing from  a  coster's  barrow  to  a  dropsical 
four-wheel  cab,  or  occasionally  the  haggard 
ghost  of  an  omnibus. 

Most  of  the  sheep  and  bullocks  that 
walk  into  the  Cattle  Market  are  carried 
later  to  Smithfield  Meat  Market  (many 
Smithfield  salesmen  having  slaughter-houses 
behind  that  wall  which  fringes  the  square) ; 
and  at  Smithfield  they  are  in  the  greatest 
and,  in  some  respects,  the  best-ordered  of 
the  London  Markets.  It  covers  such  an 
immense  area  that  there  is  space  around 
it  to  accommodate  all  the  carts  and  vans 
that  go  there :  you  see  them  backed  in 
serried  lines  to  the  kerbs  along  three  sides 
of  the  Market  as  well  as  under  its  arch- 
ways, while  their  drivers  or  owners  are 
inside  doing  business  among  mighty  red 
and  white  groves  and  vistas  of  beef  and 
mutton. 


ROUND    LONDON'S    BIG    MARKETS. 


32s 


The  early  morning  methods  of  the  Markets 
are  very  much  the  same  everywhere,  the 
chief  difference  being  in  the  nature  of  the 
commodities,  the  bulk  whereof  are  brought 
up  by  one  series  of  vehicles  and  taken 
away  by  another ;  but  you  may  get  more 
entertainment  at  Smithfield,  as  you  may  at 
Billingsgate  or  Leadenhall,  out  of  the  fag 
end  of  a  Saturday's  market. 

Here,  for  example,  this  Saturday  afternoon 
in  Smithfield,  now  that  more  than  half  the 
stalls  are  shut,  comes  a  staid,  matured 
City  clerk  with  his  shrewd,  economical 
little  wife  and  their  eldest  son,  a  dapper 
youth  who  has  himself  just  become  "  some- 
thing in  the  City "  and  has  met  them  by 
arrangement,  but  reluctantly,  and  in  some 
fear  of  compromising  his  budding  dignity. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  matured  clerk  has 
a  large  family,  or  they  take  in  boarders 
to  eke  out  his  salary.  The  inevitable  men, 
women,  and  children  who  hover  about  the 
gates  to  sell  penny  canvas  or  straw  bags 
know  them  by  sight  as  regular  Saturday 
customers,  and  their  experience  stands  them 
in  good  stead. 

They  do  nothing  rashly.  Having  inspected 
a  dozen  stalls,  they  go  back  to  one  they 
had  passed,  and  secure  a  shoulder  of  mutton 
or  a  great  piece  of  beef  for  remarkably 
little  money.  At  the  newer  end  of  the 
Market,  where  they  have  now  and  then 
picked  up  a  bargain  in  poultry,  they  buy 
several    pounds   of   good   cheap    bacon   and 


MEAT   VAN. 

a  formidable  wedge  of  cheese.  Then  they 
go  out  and  across  the  road  to  the  Fish 
and  Vegetable  Market,  where  they  get  some 
fish  for  this  evening's  dinner  or  supper,  and 
lay  in  a  stock  of  fruit  and  tomatoes,  sup- 
plemented by  a  selection  of  marrows  and, 
possibly,  a  couple  of  cucumbers  ;  so  that, 
at  last,  when  they  shape  their  course  for 
a  penny  tramcar  home,  the  clerk  is  carrying 
two  bags,  his  wife  has  her  arms  full  of  mis- 
cellanies, and  their  son,  following  them  with 
a  hang-dog,  furtive  air,  eyes  the  passers-by 
loweringly,  and,  with  the  bag  of  shamelessly 
protruding  meat  in  one  hand  and  the  basket 
of  fish  in  the  other,  is  secretly  praying  he 
may  not  be  seen  by  anybody  who  knows  him. 


BAG   SELLERS. 


326 


PENSIONEKS  AND  "  BLACK  JACKS 


AT    CHELSEA     HOSPITAL. 

By  DESMOND  YOUNG. 


TO  the  average  Londoner,  Chelsea  Hos- 
pital is  merely  a  home  for  military 
"  veterans  battered  in  their  country's 
wars."  Rightly  considered,  it  is  more.  It  is, 
by  means  of  its  inmates,  a  bridge — the  only 
accessible  bridge — between  the  Army  life 
of  the  past  and  of  the  present,  between 
the  battles  of  yesterday  and  those  fought  in 
the  valleys  of  Abyssinia,  on  the  burning 
plains  of  India,  and  in  other  parts  of  the 
world  where  the  arts  of  peace  have  long  held 
sway.  For  no  man  is  eligible  for  its  benefits 
under  the  age  of  fifty-five  unless  disabled  by 
severe  wounds  or  loss  of  limbs,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  its  inmates,  numbering  about 
570  all  told,  represent  the  pick  of  the  oldest  of 
our  warriors. 

Worn-out  fighting  material  are  they,  as  is 
evidenced  by  the  pathetic  fact  that,  though 
some  men  have  rested  in  the  haven  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  the  average  duration 
of  life  there  is  only  about  five  years.  As  the 
last  abiding  place  of  the  very  cream  of 
our    superannuated    fighters,    then,    Chelsea 


Hospital  is,  and  ever  will  be,  the  link  connect- 
ing deeds  of  military  glory  separated  by  long 
intervals. 

Many  and  varied  are  the  circumstances 
that  bring  veterans  together  under  the 
hospitable  roof  of  the  famous  institution. 
Sometimes  an  old  .soldier  marries  a  young 
wife,  with  the  usual  result — jealousy,  quarrels, 
unhappiness.  Taught  in  the  bitterest  of  all 
schools,  that  of  experience,  that  May  and 
December  will  not  mate,  he  .seeks  the  shelter 
of  the  Hospital,  sure  that  there  peace  and 
comfort  will  be  his.  Many  an  in-pen- 
sioner  has  a  wife  outside,  but  it  is  signifi- 
cant that  she  is  rarely  his  equal  in  age. 
Seldom  will  a  scarred  and  wrinkled  warrior 
leave  a  helpmeet  who  has  spent  spring 
and  summer  with  him,  who  has  travelled  with 
him  hand  in  hand  through  life,  who  has 
shared  his  joys  and  sorrows  since  youth  and 
hope  were  high.  In  other  cases  a  broken- 
down  veteran  is  alone  in  the  world.  The  sole 
survivor  of  his  race,  he  has  not  a  single 
relation  to  whom  he  can  look  for  assistance. 


anw* 


J 

< 

H 

EC 

M 

o 

< 
ui 
w 
J 
u 
X 

o 


AT    CHELSEA    HOSPITAL. 


327 


This  being  the  case,  what  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  bethink  him  of  Chelsea 
Hospital  ? 

The  unfilial  conduct  of  sons  and  daughters  is 
another  prolific  cause  of  soldiers  relinquishing 
their  pension.  And  what  stories  of  such 
ingrates  cluster  round  the  case  of  unclaimed 
medals  in  the  Great  Hall ! — a  case  wherein 
repose  scores  of  war  decorations  bestowed  on 
inmates  dead  and  gone,  some  of  them  of 
considerable  intrinsic  value.  Again  and 
again  have  such  insignia  been  applied  for  by 
persons  who  would  not  give  their  departed 
owners  a  shilling — nay,  who  played  the  parts 
of  Goneril  and  Regan  in  the  oft-acted  tragedy 
of  Lear.  Other  veterans  there  are — though 
these,  happily,  are  in  the  minority — who 
"  sup  sorrow  by  spoonfuls  "  through  business 
troubles  as  well  as  through  the  unnatural  con- 
duct of  their  children.  Inheriting  money,  they 
embark  in  shopkeeping  and  the  like,  fail,  and 
then  enter  the  Hospital,  there  patiently  to 
await  the  last  summons. 

Once  an  old  soldier  joins  the  establishment, 
he  does  not  often  leave  it  voluntarily,  because, 
in  addition  to  being  comparatively  well  off, 
he  can  adapt  things  exactly  to  his  liking. 
There    are   no    irksome    rules    to   worry  and 


annoy  him,  and  no  duties  to  be  performed. 
"  We  haven't  to  do  anything,"  said  one  fine 
old  soldier,  "except  attend  church  on  Sunday." 
If  a  man  choo.ses,  he  can  remain  out  till 
nine  o'clock  every  night  in  the  week,  and  by 
getting  permission — granted  as  a  matter  of 
course — he  need  not  return  till  twelve.  He 
can,  too,  go  away  on  furlough  as  opportunity 
serves.  There  is  practically  no  restriction 
on  him. 

Just  the  same  degree  of  liberty  is  accorded 
him  in  purely  domestic  matters.  Every  man 
has  his  own  cubicle,  which  is  his  "  castle,"  and 
concerning  which  he  has  full  power  to  use  the 
words  of  a  poet  now  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
interviewers  and  other  animalculae  to  whom 
he  addressed  them  : 

"  No  foot,  if  you  please,  over  threshold  of  mine." 
No  other  pensioner  can  enter  it  un- 
asked. He  is  the  lord  and  master  of  his 
little  home.  Here  he  is  free  to  do  as  he 
pleases.  He  rises  when  he  likes  ;  welcomes 
whom  he  likes  ;  goes  out  when  he  likes  ;  eats 
when  he  likes  (for  his  food  is  put  into  his 
cubicle  at  stated  times,  and  not  served  at  a 
common  table) ;  does  exactly  as  tastes  and 
habits  dictate  without  let  or  hindrance  from 
anybody. 


GARDENING. 


328 


LIVING    LONDON. 


That  this  absence  of  rule  tends  to  make 
the  in-pensioner  more  comfortable  is  plain  in 
every  ward.  Even  old  soldiers,  accustomed 
as  they  have  been  to  that  cast-iron,  inflexible 
routine  which  stifles  individuality  and  converts 
men  into  machines,  have  not-  all  the  same 
tastes  and  dispositions  ;  and  the  great  differ- 
ence in  the  arrangement  and  decoration 
of  the  cubicles  shows  the  wisdom  of  the 
governors  in  recognising  this  circumstance. 
While  some  are  as  plain  as  a  barrack  room 
— destitute  of  everything  beyond  absolute 
necessaries — others  are  embellished,  externally 
as  well  as  internally,  with  pictures  from  the 
illustrated  papers,  tobacconists'  show  cards, 
and  a  wealth  of  similar  odds  and  ends.  Nor 
is  this  all.  In  a  few  of  the  cubicles  a  mar- 
vellously elaborate  scheme  of  decoration  has 
been  carried  out  on  a  shelf  over  the  bed. 
The  centre-piece  is  a  loud-voiced  clock, 
which  is  flanked  on  either  hand  with  tiers  of 
fancy  cigarette  and  tobacco  boxes,  match 
boxes,  photographs  and  pictures  given  away 
with  packets  of  cigarettes,  and  other  trifles. 
All  this  does  not  sound  very  promising 
material  as  a  substitute  for  such  wall  orna- 
ments as  plaques  and  oil  paintings  ;  but 
it  really  brightens  up  a  cubicle  to  an  amazing 
e.xtent,  and  truly  remarkable  are  the  persever- 
ance, ingenuity,  and  taste  displayed  in  making 
the  most  of  it. 

Half  of  each  cubicle  is  taken  up  by  a  bed  ; 
the  other  half  is  for  sitting  and  eating  pur- 
poses. Such  things  as  boot  cleaning  are 
done  outside  in  the  ward — where  the  necessary 
appliances  are  close  at  hand — and  for  reading, 
writing,  and  companionship,  the  Great  Hall, 
with  its  collection  of  weapons,  its  old  leather 
drinking  vessels,  known  as  "  black  jacks," 
and  other  interesting  contents,  is  available. 
There,  with  a  congenial  comrade,  and  his 
memory  stimulated  by  the  objects  around 
him — the  portraits  of  Britain's  famous  fight- 
ing sons,  and  still  more  by  the  tattered 
fragments  of  flags  taken  from  the  enemy  in 
war  that  hang  over  them — the  pensioner  can 
drive  the  hours  along  by  fighting  his  battles 
over  again. 

Or,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  he  can  go  out 
into  the  spacious  grounds  and  mix  with  his 
fellows,  or  take  an  airing  on  the  .seats  in 
the  piazza,  with  his  back  to  the  memorials 
of  British  heroes^a  number  of  mural  monu- 


ments as  appropriately  situated  as  they  are 
inspiriting. 

Once  a  week  there  is  a  full  muster  in  the 
Great  Hall.  Fay  is  given  out  there  every 
Saturday  morning,  and  the  pensioners,  all 
dressed  in  their  best,  turn  up  in  full  force  to 
receive  it.  For  many  years  the  money  allow- 
ance was  only  one  penny  per  day,  but  now  it 
is  twopence,  each  inmate  receiving  fourteen- 
pence  per  week.  Although  this  is  not  a  large 
amount,  it  is  sufficient  to  provide  the  indis- 
pensable tobacco,  which  is  almost  the  only 
commodity  that  the  old  soldier  need  buy. 
Food,  clothing,  beer  (a  strictly  limited  quan- 
tity), firing — these  are  all  free.  So  that  he 
does  not  really  require  much  pocket  money. 
No  doubt  he  could  spend  more  than  he 
gets  ;  but  that  is  a  very  widely  distributed 
capacity. 

Besides  owning  a  cubicle,  some  of  the  pen- 
sioners have  also  proprietary  rights  over  a 
plot  of  land.  At  one  corner  of  the  hospital 
grounds,  between  the  disused  cemetery  and 
(strange  juxtaposition !)  the  site  of  that 
vanished  scene  of  so  much  uproarious  jollity, 
Ranelagh  Gardens,  is  an  enclosure  divided 
into  148  allotments  about  twenty  feet  square. 
Each  of  these  is  supposed  to  be  the  freehold 
of  a  separate  inmate,  though,  as  a  fact,  some 
men  have  two  or  three  plots.  Whether  from 
a  sense  of  life's  impermanence — for  a  pen- 
sioner often  sows  and  another  reaps — or  from 
ignorance  of  one  of  the  oldest  of  arts  or  some 
other  cause,  applications  for  an  ownerless 
plot  from  those  who  do  not  already  possess 
a  garden  are  sometimes  lacking.  There  is  no 
demand  for  it ;  nobody  seems  willing  to  have 
it  at  a  gift.  And  in  this  case  it  is  transferred 
to  a  man  who  already  cultivates  a  slice  of  the 
land. 

Like  the  cubicles,  these  duodecimo 
pocket  estates  bear  the  impress  of  their 
owners'  hands.  Not  one  is  so  small  but  that 
it  reveals  something  of  its  proprietor's  idiosyn- 
crasies. Some  are  filled  with  old-fashioned 
flowers — pinks  and  stocks,  lupins  and  holly- 
hocks ;  and  in  the  autumn  groups  of  the  plots 
are  gloriously  radiant  with  the  many-hued 
and  queenly  dahlia.  More  architectural  than 
anything  else  are  the  decorations  of  other 
square.s.  On  one  stands  a  miniature  castle 
of  pebbles  and  cement  about  five  feet  high, 
surmounted   by   a   battlemented   tower,   and 


42 


I.   THE   CHAPEL,        II.    A   GARDEN   SCENE.        III.    THE    GREAT    HALL. 


330 


LIVING    LONDON. 


with  door  windows,  and  all  complete.  Here 
and  there,  again,  a  contemplative  old  sol- 
dier has  built  him  an  arbour,  and  when  it 
is  clothed  in  green  and  the  days  are  warm  he 
sits  in  it  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  puffing  away  at 
his  pipe  and  musing  over  the  far-distant  past. 

"  Practical  "  is  writ  large  on  yet  another 
class  of  allotments,  since  they  contain  a 
cucumber  frame,  a  few  score  lettuce  or  rows 
of  onions,  two  or  three  beds  of  radishes,  a 
sowing  of  mustard  and  cress — "  something 
worth  looking  after,"  as  your  severely  utili- 
tarian gardener  says.  There  is  an  obvious 
reason  for  the  growing  of  such  crops.  They 
can  be  turned  into  money,  especially  on 
Sunday,  when  the  shops  are  closed,  and 
when  people  living  in  the  neighbourhood 
cannot  go  to  their  usual  sources  of  supply  for 
a  "bit  o'  green  stuff  for  tea." 

What  more  can  an  old  warrior  want  than 
a  cubicle  and  a  bit  of  garden  at  Chelsea? 
Nothing ;  and  the  generality  of  those  who 
enter  the  Hospital  recognise  it  and  are  con- 
tented accordingly.  Many,  indeed,  become 
.so  attached  to  the  place  that  tliey  cherish  one 
of  the  most  common  delusions  of  old  age — 


that  when  "  something  happens  "  to  them  the 
whole  institution  must  inevitably  collapse  and 
fall  into  nothingness.  Ever  since  the  days  of 
the  first  grandfather  the  same  fallacy  has  been 
current. 

While,  however,  most  veterans  who  gain 
admittance  to  the  institution  do  not  leave 
it  till  the  end,  some  discharge  themselves 
in  a  huff  and  go  back  to  their  old  pension. 
A  man  may,  for  instance,  get  in  a  coterie 
where  he  is  chaffed,  and  may  ultimately  vow 
in  his  haste  that  he  will  not  stand  it  any 
longer.  That  done,  he  feels  bound,  repent  his 
words  as  deeply  as  he  may,  to  take  his 
departure.  But,  whatever  the  cause  may  be, 
very  few  leave  who  do  not  wish  to  go 
back  again. 

That  is  not  impossible.  In  fact,  some  men 
do  return.  They  send  in  their  application, 
and,  if  there  is  nothing  against  them,  their 
names  are  put  on  the  list  and  they  await  their 
turn — wait  till  the  forty  or  fifty  men  having 
prior  claims  on  the  institution  have  either  died 
or  been  taken  in — and  then  they  pass  through 
the  gates  once  more,  to  remain  as  long  as  life 
lasts. 


MEMORIALS   IN   THE    PIAZZA. 


331 


LONDON'S    HOMES    FOR    THE    HOMELESS. 

By  T.   W.   WILKINSON. 


•■N°„ 


HOUSE   OF    CHARITY  I 
ON   WALL. 


TABLET 


man 
e  e  d 
beg, 
starve,  steal,  or 
commit  sui- 
cide." Charac- 
teristic alike  in 
wording  and 
"display" — for 
the  Salvation 
Army  believes 
in  hitting  be- 
tween the  eyes 
— the  placard 
has  been  read 
by  thousands 
of  sceptics  in 
the  Blackfriars 
shelter.  Some 
of  the  habitues 
of  that  institu- 
tion certainly  would  not  endorse  the  pro- 
position as  a  whole  (they  would  jib  at  "  beg  ") ; 
but,  whatever  the  professional  "  dosser  " 
may  think,  there  is  less  temptation  now  for 
a  poor  houseless  wanderer  in  London  to 
beg,  steal,  or  take  his  departure  to  the  next 
world  by  the  cheapest  route — vid  the  river 
Thames  —  than  ever  there  was.  Never 
before  was  the  Great  City  so  rich  in  homes 
for  the  distressed.  Never  before  were  so 
many  hands  extended  to  raise  the  man  in 
the  gutter. 

When  De  Ouincey,  ill  and  faint  from 
hunger,  turned  from  Oxford  Street  into  Soho 
Square,  and  sank  exhausted  on  a  doorstep, 
refuges  for  such  as  he  there  were  none. 
-Cross  this  same  square  now,  and  at  the 
corner  of  Greek  Street  you  face  the  oldest 
hospice  in  London.  Here  is  a  refuge  founded 
specially  for  cases  like  the  Opium  Eater's. 
Without,  it  is  not  attractive :  a  large,  smoke- 
begrimed,  gloomy  building,  plainly  labelled 
"  House  of  Charity";  within,  there  is  ample 
to  draw  the    habitual  "  dosser "   a   thousand 


miles  if  he  saw  a  million  to  one  chance  of 
enjoying  it.  Solid,  old-fashioned  comfort — 
comfort  of  the  Georgian  and  early  Victorian 
era — that  is  the  impression  that  the  interior 
must  needs  produce.  And  the  table  side  of 
the  house — decidedly  a  weak  point  with 
many  charities — accords  with  its  fittings  and 
appointments.  The  food  is  of  the  best,  and 
is  supplied  without  stint.  The  Soho  Square 
refuge  for  the  homeless,  in  fact,  is  in  this 
respect  unique. 

Not  altogether  a  blessing  to  the  Council, 
and  still  less  to  the  warden  of  the  institu- 
tion, is  this  distinction.  For  all  the  social 
wastrels  in  the  Metropolis  wend  their  way  to 
Greek  Street,  primed  with  moving  tales  of 
unheard-of  vicissitudes  and  armed  with 
testimonials  much  more  interesting  than 
convincing.  But  against  this  drawback  can 
be  set  the  circumstance  that  no  other  charity 
of  its  kind  in  London  benefits  so  many 
deserving  people.  From  the  connections  of 
royalty  to  domestic  servants,  from  University 
men  to  unlettered  hinds — all  come  to  Soho 
Square.  One  day — and  these  are  actual 
cases — a    countess    gives    a   poverty    ring  at 


HOUSE   OF   CHARITY  :     ENTRANCE. 


332 


LIVING    LONDON. 


the  door,  her  pockets  empty,  her  strength 
exhausted,  her  hopes  and  aspirations  tem- 
porarily gone.  On  another  the  cousin  of 
a  duke  ascends  the  steps,  apphes  for  shelter, 
and  is  admitted.  The  victim  of  a  rascally 
solicitor — a  man  who  had  owned  a  prosperous 
West-End  theatre — also  seeks  succour ;  and 
a  lady  w  ho  finds  her  way  to  the  hospice  in 
her  hour  of  need  proves  to  be  the  grand- 
daughter of  an  archbishop.  Barristers, 
solicitors,    physicians   and    surgeons,    profes- 


the  sandwichboard  man's  restaurant,  the 
famous  soup  kitchen.  Unlike  many  London 
shelters,  it  has  a  provincial  reputation,  because 
most  of  the  round  score  of  beds  it  can  place 
at  the  disposal  of  the  destitute  are  usually 
occupied  by  men  who  have  come  from  the 
country  in  search  of  employment.  Not  that 
it  refuses  shelter  to  other  unfortunates.  No  ; 
destitute  aliens  it  takes  in,  and  penniless 
Londoners,  too.  I3ut  for  many  years  the 
bulk  of  its  beneficiaries  have  been  "  travelling 


HAM    YARD    HOSPICE  :     THE    SOUl'    KITCHEN. 


sional  men  of  all  kinds,  veritable  "  human 
documents  "  many  of  them,  come  in  a  never- 
ending  stream.  Tragedy,  again  tragedy,  and 
yet  again  tragedy — the  same  thing  is  wit- 
nessed day  after  day  in  the  House  of 
Charity. 

Since  De  Ouincey  took  his  nightly  strolls 
in  Oxford  Street,  too,  a  host  of  other  refuges, 
intended  for  a  different  class  of  destitute 
people  from  that  fed  and  housed  in  Soho 
Square,  have  sprung  up  all  over  London. 
Further  west  stands  that  admirable  institu- 
tion, the  Ham  Yard  Hospice,  and  to  the  east 
is  an  equally  excellent  charity  worked  on 
somewhat  similar  lines,  the  Field  Lane 
Refuge.     The  Ham  Yard  Hospice  is  above 


tradesmen."  Once  an  applicant  is  admitted, 
the  streets,  provided  his  references  are  satis- 
factory,   have     no     terrors    for    him    for    a 


fortnight. 


He    is    boarded    and    lodged    for 


that  period,  and  allowed  to  go  out  daily  in 
search  of  work. 

At  Field  Lane  much  the  same  system  is 
in  force.  For  at  least  fourteen  nights  the 
man  who  is  able  to  satisfy  the  superin- 
tendent of  his  eligibility  for  the  benefits 
of  the  refuge  is  sure  of  a  bed.  As  for  life 
in  the  refuge,  the  ordinary  course  of  events 
runs  thus  :  After  breakfast — "  plain  " — come 
prayers,  at  nine  o'clock.  Then,  having  mean- 
while scanned  the  advertisement  columns  of 
the  newspapers  provided,  the  inmate  makes 


isL 


LONDON'S    HOMES    FOR    THE    HOMELESS. 


333 


a  scour  for  work  till  noon.  At 
twelve,  if  he  cares  to  come  in 
for  it,  is  dinner — good  meat 
soup  and  bread.  Another 
prowl  round  the  streets,  and 
he  is  back,  at  five,  for  the 
evening  meal,  which  consists 
of  bread  and  meat  and  tea. 
Every  day  four  men  are  told 
off  in  turn  to  fetch  broken 
food  from  certain  large  City 
warehouses,  and  it  is  from  this 
that  the  soup  is  made  and  the 
meat  comes  for  supjDer.  Other 
necessary  work — as  the  clean- 
ing of  the  dormitories — is  done 
by  the  inmates ;  but  ample 
time  is  allowed  them  for  op- 
portunities to  work  out  their 
own  social  salvation.  In  the 
evening  the  "  Field  Laner" 
attends  a  meeting  in  the  large 
room  \\here  the  Ragged 
Church  service  is  held  on 
Sunday ;  and,  finally,  he  is 
present,  with  his  thirty-four 
companions  in  misfortune  (the  refuge  has  a 
capacity  for  thirty-five  men  all  told),  at 
prayers.  The  women  are  subject  to  similar 
rules,  only  they  are  not  expected  to  be  in  at 
midday. 

Of  another  class  of  refuges  the  Medland 
Hall,  Ratcliff,  and  the  Providence  Row 
Refuge,  Spitalfields,  are  the  leading  repre- 
sentatives. The  first  of  these  institutions, 
one  of  the  several  means  by  which  the 
London  Congre- 
gational Union  is 


MEDLAND    HALL  :     WAITING   TO    ENTEK. 


FIELD   LANE   REFUGE  :    SUPPLYING  COCOA   AFTER   THE 
RAGGED   CHURCH   SERVICE. 


doing  so  much  good  work,  is  world-famed. 
Every  place  of  this  kind  in  London  has  its 
peculiarity.  That  of  the  Medland  Hall  is 
cosmopolitanism.  Situated  on  the  fringe  of 
London's  great  waterway,  and  open  every 
night  in  the  year  to  all  comers,  with  only  such 
restrictions  as  are  necessary  to  prevent  its 
abuse,  it  is  a  focus  for  destitute  men  of  all 
nationalities. 

Deeply  impressive  is  the  scene  in  front  of 
the  hall  shortly  before  six  o'clock. 
Though  everybody  knows  the 
time  for  opening 
the  doors,  men 
have  been  con- 
gregating from 
all  points  of  the 
compass  for  a 
couple  of  hours, 
and  now  they 
are  drawn  up  in 
a  queue  extend- 
ing along  the 
east  side  of  the 
H  o  r  s  e  ferry 
Branch  Road  to 
Commercial 


MEDLAND  HALL:    INSIDE. 


LONDON'S    HOMES    FOR    THE    HOMELESS. 


335 


\ 


Road.  Five  or  six  hundred  in  number,  they 
form  a  strange  string  of  humanity — a  strange 
string,  truly.  An  unshorn  outcast  in  a  faded, 
rusty  frock  coat,  unmistakably  a  clerk,  one  of 
the  City's  rejected,  rubs  shoulders  with  a 
burly  son  of  the  soil  who  looks  as  if  he  had 
stepped  straight  out  of  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy's 
pages.  Propped  up  against  the  fence,  silent 
and  wondering,  a  negro  takes  stock  of  his 
neighbours,  some  dozen  dockers.  Further 
on  stands  a  blue-bloused  German  sailor, 
accompanied  by  his  two  boys,  on  whose  fair, 
innocent  faces  anxiety  and  curiosity  are 
singularly  blended  ;  and  still  nearer  the  door 
there  is  a  Spanish  seafarer.  Other  aliens 
there  are  in  plenty,  and  as  for  the  rest, 
who  shall  attempt  to  describe  them,  even  in 
catalogue  fashion  ?  Take  a  fact  that  speaks 
volumes  in  this  connection.  Two  bunks — 
only  two — were  occupied  in  a  single  year  by 
317  different  visitors,  among  whom  were 
Americans,  negroes,  English  sailors,  firemen, 
engine-drivers,  clerks,  blacksmiths,  printers, 
grooms,  coach-painters,  bricklayers,  shoe- 
makers, etc.  One  of  the  inmates  was  a 
well-educated  young  fellow  from  Cork.  On 
the  fifth  night  of  his  stay,  having  meanwhile 
written  to  Ireland,  he  received  a  telegram  : 
"  Money  forwarded.  Come  home  at  once. 
Father  dying." 

Also  included  in  the  three  hundred  occu- 
pants was  an  old  bluejacket  who,  when  he 
drew  his  pension,  walked  along  the  file  in 
front  of  the  hall  and  gave  each  man  a  penny. 
This  was  an  act  of  true  generosity,  and  in 
the  annals  of  the  institution  it  does  not  by 
any  means  stand  alone.  The  superin- 
tendent tells  of  a  not  less  gratifying 
incident  that  deserves  to  be  recorded  to  the 
credit  of  human  nature — of  a  labourer  who 
turned  out  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  to 
look  for  work,  and  who,  having  succeeded, 
returned  a  week  later  with  three  shillings  "  to 
help  some  other  poor  chap." 

Pass  now  through  the  hospitable  doors  of 
the  shelter.  It  is  still  a  few  minutes  short  of 
the  hour  of  seven,  and  yet  every  one  of  the 
343  bunks  it  contains  has  been  allotted. 
Men  with  admission  tickets — which  are 
available  for  six  nights,  or  rather  seven,  since 
Sunday  is  not  counted — have  been  let  in 
first,  and  the  remaining  space  has  been  filled 
by  the  new-comers.     All  applicants,  whether 


admitted  or  not,  have  been  given  a  substantial 
lump  of  bread-and-butter.  Scattered  over 
the  building,  the  fortunate  ones  are  making 
the  most  of  their  respite  in  the  bitter  struggle 
with  cruel  fortune.  Some  are  wolfing  their 
bread-and-butter  with  eloquent  voracity,  and, 
as  Macaulay  said  of  Johnson,  "  swallowing 
tea  in  oceans,"  to  enable  the  men  to  make 
which  beverage  a  prodigious  quantity  of 
boiling  water  is  ready  when  the  hall  is 
opened.  Tea  ?  Something  hot  in  many 
cases — something  concocted  from  leaves 
already  brewed  and  double-brewed  in  a  cheap 
cook-shop.  A  few  men  are  busy  in  another 
way.     Here  and  there  heads  are  bent  over 


HALFPENNY      BARBER. 


boots  that  seem  beyond  all  possible  redemp- 
tion, and  trousers  in  the  last  stage  of  shock- 
ingness  are  being  patched  with  infinite 
artistic  care — an  operation  for  which  cloth 
cuttings  are  supplied  gratuitously.  But  the 
majority  of  the  men  are  so  tired  and  footsore 
with  perambulating  the  endless  streets  that 
they  are  already  in  their  shallow  bunks.  A 
touching  picture,  and  yet  a  pleasing  one 
withal,  for  the  poor  fellows  are  temporarily 
contented,  in  spite  of  their  past  sufferings 
and  of  the  darkness  of  their  present  outlook. 
As  to  the  bunks,  they  are  wooden  frames  in 
line  on  the  floor  and  having  inside  a  bed 
of  dry  sea-weed  encased  in  cloth  leather. 

Brightness,  comfort,  perfect  order,  and 
system — these  are  the  characteristics  of  the 
Providence    Row    Night    Refuge,    familiarly 


336 


LIVING    LONDON. 


PROVIDENCE  ROW  NIGHT  REFUGE: 
MALE  AND  FEMALE  APPLICANTS. 


known  as  "  Ihe  Dorinitoiy,"  which  owes  its 
existence  to  the  zeal  and  abounding  charity 
of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Gilbert.  The  doors  are 
opened  at  five  o'clock.  Fifteen  minutes  later 
it  is  full  ;  it  has  received  its  complement  of 
about  three  hundred  men,  women,  and 
children — not  all  out-of-works  or  the  de- 
pendents of  such,  but  unfortunates  of  many- 
kinds. 

At  night  the  large  building  is  one  of  the 
sights  of  charitable  London.  The  men's 
sitting-room,  with  its  inmates  reading,  smok- 
ing, and  conversing  as  if  the  world  went 
pretty  well  with  them  ;  the  corresjjonding 
part  on  the  female  side,  where  women  are 
knitting  and  sewing  and  their  children  are 
gambolling  about  the  floor;  the  well-fitted 
lavatories  (one  in  each  section),  in  which 
there  is  every  convenience  for  personal  clean- 
liness, notably  a  monster  foot-bath  two  or 
three  yards  long,  and  being  used  by  a  dozen 
inmates  simultaneously — all  this  is  delightful 
to  witness,  and  differs  essentially  in  some 
respects  from  ordinary  shelter  life.  It  is  a  cut 
above  that.  The  food  allowance  night  and 
morning — bread  and  a  basin  of  capital  cocoa 
— is  also  superior  to  that  usually  given  in 
large  institutions  of  this  class.  Yet  an  in- 
mate can  remain  for  three  weeks. 

A  third  class  of  shelters  is  admirably   re- 


presented by  the 
Morning  Post  Em- 
bankment Home,  in 
Millbank  Street,West- 
minster.  Supported 
mainly  by  the  readers 
of  that  journal,  it  is 
managed  by  the  Church 
Army  on  its  usual 
lines,  and  differs  essen- 
tiall}-  from  most  shel- 
ters open  to  the 
penniless  in  that  it 
does  not  give  some- 
thing for  nothing. 
All  its  inmates — and 
it  has  one  hundred 
beds,  a  number  of 
them  in  separate 
cubicles  —  are  re- 
quired to  do  some 
work  in  return  for 
food  and  lodgings. 
Some  are  employed  at  their  own  trade ; 
others  are  sent  out  window  cleaning,  sand- 
wich-board carrying,  etc. ;  others — the  ma- 
jority— are  put  to  chopping  wood,  of  which 
they  are  required  to  do  an  amount  pro- 
portionate to  the  benefits  they  receive.  The 
"  task,"  however,  is  mere  relaxation :  three 
baskets  for  breakfast,  six  for  dinner,  and  two 
for  tea.  And  so  a  man  may  go  on  for  weeks  ; 
for  there  is  no  hard-and-fast  rule  as  to  the 
length  of  time  which  he  may  stay,  every 
case  being  dealt  with  on  its  merits.  This 
is  an  excellent  system.  By  its  application 
in  the  Morning  Post  Home  thousands  of 
men  have  been  given  a  chance  of  rehabili- 
tation 

After  a  man  has  stopped  in  all  the  free 
homes  for  the  homeless,  as  well  as  those  in 
which  he  works  out  his  keep — and  these  two 
classes,  if  he  take  them  in  the  proper  order, 
may  provide  him  with  board  and  lodgings 
for  months — there  are  still  the  Salvation 
Army  shelters  between  him  and  the  street. 
At  certain  of  these  institutions  twopence 
procures  an  itinerant,  male  or  female,  a  bunk 
which  is,  in  some  resj)ects,  like  those  at 
Medland  Hall,  except  that  American  cloth 
is  used.  Comfortable,  as  contrasted  with  an 
ordinary  bed,  it  is  not  ;  but  clean,  free  from 
anything    that    will    irritate    or    harm — y&s. 


LONDON'S    HOMES    FOR   THE    HOMELESS. 


337 


Getting  into  a  bunli  is  like  getting  between 
two  icicles,  so  little  attuned  is  American 
leather  to  the  human  skin.  Presently,  how- 
ever, owing  to  its  non-porosity,  it  makes 
the  body  unpleasantly  warm,  and  occasion- 
ally, moreover,  sticks  to  it,  with  the  result 
that  the  "  dosser "  may  next  morning  carry 
away  something  like  the  remains  of  a  porous 
plaster  on  parts  of  his  frame  where  porous 
plaster  was  never  voluntarily  put  by  mortal 
man.  And  yet  nothing  could  well  take  the 
place  of  American  leather,  which,  let  its 
faults  be  what  they  may,  has  one  supreme 
merit.  It  is  easily  swept,  washed,  and 
disinfected.  Besides,  there  is,  after  all,  a  way 
of  preventing  it  from  sticking  to  the  body. 
Here  is  the  "  dosser's  "  recipe.  Gather  some 
paper,  such  as  the  contents  bills  of  evening 
journals,  while  on  the  way  to  the  shelter, 
and  lay  it  between  the  American  leather 
and  your  nobility. 

But  the  cheapest  shelter  of  the  Salvation 
Army  is  the  one  at  Blackfrians.  Wonderful 
is  the  amount  of  spending  in  sixpence  there. 
For  an  inclusive  charge  of  fourpence  supper, 
bed,  and  breakfast  are  provided  ;  another 
halfpenny  will  secure  a  shave  at  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  two  barbers,  both  of  them 
"  lodgers,"  not  official  Figaros  ;  and  with  the 


remaining  three  -  halfpence  tobacco,  food, 
clothes,  anything  may  be  purchased.  For 
among  the  habitues  are  a  number  of  "  mer- 
chants "  who  not  only  retail  by  halfpenny- 
worths such  commodities  as  broken  pork 
pies,  sausage  ends,  and  the  sweepings  of  the 
ham  and  beef  shop  counter,  but  sell  "  hard 
up,"  or  cigars  and  cigarette  ends  gathered  in 
the  street,  as  well  as  boots,  shirts,  and  other 
fruits  of  begging.  Besides,  a  man  can  wash 
his  .shirt,  and,  indeed,  do  anything  else  in 
reason,  free  of  cost. 

A  strange  institution,  this,  at  Blackfriars — 
the  cheapest  hotel  in  London,  the  resort  of 
some  of  the  most  hopeless  of  outcasts,  the 
finest  training  school  in  England  for  learning 
the  arts  and  shifts  of  destitute  life  in  a  great 
city. 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  Metropolis  is  not 
ill  supplied  with  homes  for  the  homeless, 
and  comparatively  few  of  those  who  form  its 
flotsam  and  jetsam  are  not  benefited  by  one 
or  other  of  them,  while  every  year  hundreds 
are  by  their  aid  given  a  new  start  in  life. 
When  a  man  once  gets  into  the  gutter  in 
London  it  takes  something  very  little  short 
of  a  miracle  to  raise  him  up  again  ;  but  the 
annals  of  the  city's  shelters  prove  that  the 
thing  is  done  nevertheless. 


.N^'-' 


*«S! 


■R     %!    Providence  (Row)  Night  Refuse.    '^.^  ^\W\ 

3HV»^'  ":'>-  CUSIMN   STllKET  ,S   liAVKN   «">«-     ^WOf   vW  R^^** 


V-      ADMIT  THE  BEABEf. 


*«S.»^gJ;.^ 


ADMISSION   TICKETS. 


43 


338 


LONDON'S    DRESSMAKERS    AND    MILLINERS. 

By  ELIZABETH  L.  BANKS. 


MADAME  SMARTLY'S  establishment 
is  in  the  vicinitj'  of  Bond  Street ; 
Miss  Stitchem's  place  of  business 
is  near  Clerkenwell  Green.  At  the  entrance 
of  the  Bond  Street  apartment  one  sees  the 
s  i  £^  n  "Madame 
Smartly  —  Modes  " 
engraved  on  a  highly 
polished  plate,  very 
tiny  and  elegant  in 
its  inconspicuous- 
ness.  In  the  window 
of  the  place  near 
Clerkenwell  Green, 
the  legend  "  Miss 
Stitchem  —  Dress- 
maker" is  painted 
in  huge,  uneven, 
black  letters  on  a 
large  piece  of  card- 
board almost  the 
size  of  the  window- 
pane.  At  Madame 
Smartly's  are 
mirrors  reaching 
from  floor  to  ceiling. 
At  Miss  Stitchem's 
the  only  looking- 
glass  is  a  small 
one  hanging  on  the 
wall. 

At  Madame 
Smartly's,  Lady  do 
Blank,  when  she  is 
trying  on  her  new  frock,  can  see  her  re- 
flection from  top  to  toe  in  the  mirrors  by 
simply  looking.  Indeed,  she  could  see  her- 
self if  she  were  twice  the  height  she  is — and 
Lady  de  Blank  is  a  tall  and  willowy  woman, 
too !  Not  only  does  she  see  her  length, 
but  she  sees,  without  difficulty,  her .  back, 
for  the  mirrors  are  .so  arranged  that  she  can 
view  any  part  of  herself  or  all  of  herself 
without  any  trouble  whatever.  She  has  but 
to  look  and  behold.     At  Miss  Stitchem's  Miss 


JUDGING   THE    EFFECT 


'Arriet  'Obson,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
she  is  a  diminutive  young  woman,  less  than 
five-feet-one  in  height,  has  all  sorts  of  diffi- 
culties in  arranging  the  glass  so  that  she  can 
see  her  face  and  the  beginnings  of  her  waist 

at  the  same  time ; 
and  when  she  desires 
to  see  for  herself 
just  what  sort  of  a 
"hang"  Miss 
Stitchem  has  im- 
parted to  her  skirt, 
Miss  'Obson  mounts 
a  chair,  and  thus  is 
enabled  to  see  the 
bottom  of  it  in  the 
glass,  although,  of 
course,  she  cannot 
then  see  anything 
of  her  face  or  her 
waist  or  her  hips. 

At  Madame 
Smartly's  there  are 
thirty  girls  at  work. 
Eight  of  these 
young  women  will 
have  been  employed, 
each  in  her  turn,  at 
her  own  speciality, 
on  the  wonderful 
Court  gown  that 
has  been  ordered 
by  Lady  de  Blank. 
At  Miss  Stitchem's 
there  will  be  only  one  pair  of  hands  and 
one  set  of  fingers  at  work  on  Miss  'Arriet 
'Obson's  dress.  Lady  de  Blank,  a  day  or 
two  before  the  Court  is  held,  will  call  on 
Madame  Smartly,  so  that — preparatory  to 
making  her  curtsey  to  the  Queen — her  gown 
may  have  the  finishing  touches  put  to  it  by 
one  of  the  assistants.  Surely  it  is  an  artistic 
creation,  and  well  worth  the  bill  of  eighty 
guineas  which  Lady  de  Blank  will  receive 
some  time  during  the  year. 


LONDON'S    DRESSMAKERS    AND    MILLINERS. 


339 


The  silk  petticoat  is  veiled  with  net,  and 
over  this  is  the  cream-coloured  French 
needle-run  lace,  with  short  satin  strappings  in 
the  front  and  long  strappings  reaching  to  the 
bottom  of  the  skirt  in  the  back.  There  is 
also  a  paste  trimming  which  sparkles  among 
the  lace.  The  silk  bodice  is  covered  with 
the  lace,  with  pearl  passementerie  about  the 
low  neck,  and  the  waistband,  which  is  very 
high  at  the  back,  is  of  beautiful  Parma  violet 
satin.  Then  the  train — which,  later  on,  can 
be  turned  into 
a  second  gown 
— is  of  deeper 
Parma  violet 
velvet,  edged 
with  lace,  and 
lined  with  a 
pale  Parma 
violet  to  match 
the  waistband. 
Then  come  the 
feathers  and 
the  veil. 

Miss  'Arriet 
'Obson  will  not 
get  a  properly 
made  -  out  bill 
at  all.  When 
she  goes  to 
Miss  Stitchem's 
to  fetch  her 
newly-  made 
frock  away,  she 
will  be  told 
that  the  price 
for  making,  as 
previously 
agreed,  is  five 
shillings,  and 
that     as     she 

forgot  to  provide  sufficient  cotton  for  the 
sewing  there  is  twopence -halfpenny  more 
for  that ;  and,  oh !  Miss  Stitchem  had  to 
get  two  more  yards  of  braid  at  a  penny-three- 
farthings  a  yard,  which  makes  threepence- 
halfpenny,  and  so  she  is  owing  Miss  Stitchem 
in  all  just  five  shillings  and  sixpence  ;  and 
Miss  Stitchem  will  probably  say,  though  she 
herself  was  the  maker  of  the  frock,  that 
she  never  saw  Miss  'Obson  look  to  better 
advantage. 

Madame  Smartly  is   what  is  known   as   a 


TRYING   ox    A    HAT. 


"  Court  Dressmaker  "  ;  Miss  Stitchem  lives  in 
a  street  that  is  really  so  narrow  you  could 
scarcely  call  it  a  street,  and  so,  I  suppose,  she 
might  be  called  an  "  Alley  Dressmaker." 
On  one  particular  point  I  am  positive,  and 
that  is  that  Miss  Stitchem  is  the  cheapest 
dressmaker  in  the  Metropolis.  At  any  rate, 
if  there  is  one  cheaper,  I  have  been  un- 
able, in  a  search  of  many  days,  to  discover 
her! 

Not  far  from  Madame  Smartly's,  Lady  de 

Blank  may 
stop  her  car- 
riage in  front 
of  the  millinery 
establishment 
of  Mesdames 
Swagger  and 
Swell.  It  is 
much  easier  to 
order  a  hat 
than  a  dress. 
On  entering 
she  sees  one 
hat,  or  several 
hats,  that  she 
likes.  She 
receives  the 
bows  of  many 
good-looking 
young  shop- 
women,  and  a 
special  and 
particular  bow 
from  Madame 
Swagger,  who 
is  handed  a 
hat  by  one  of 
the  young 
women  and 
places  it  upon 
the  head  of  Lady  de  Blank.  Then  a 
tiny  exclamation  of  "  Oh ! "  from  Madame 
Swagger,  and  the  hat  comes  off  Just  a  bend 
or  something  in  it  has  made  my  lady's  whole 
face  look  awry,  because  hers  is  not  the  style 
of  face  for  the  hat,  and  Madame  Swagger 
sees  directly  what  the  defect  is.  Ah  ! 
here  is  another,  which  is  tried  on  ;  but  oh  ! 
that  particular  shade  of  pink,  bordering 
on  the  magenta,  will  not  go  with  Lady  de 
Blank's  complexion,  and  Madame  Swagger 
hastily      grabs     a     bit      of     rose-pink      and 


340 


LIVING    LONDON. 


holds   it  up  to   my   lady's   head,   hiding  the 
magenta. 

"  That  is  the  shade  for  your  ladyship,"  says 
Madame  Swagger.  True!  So  it  is!  Madame 
Swagger  is  an  artist — just  as  much  of  an 
artist  as  the  painter  who  depicts  on  canvas  a 
scene  or  a  face  in  which  the  colours  blend 
into  each  other  to  make  the  wonderfully  har- 
monious whole.  And  Madame  Swagger  is 
not  only  an  artist :  she  is  an  artist  who  has 
made  her  name.  She  takes  the  magenta 
velvet  from  the  hat,  substitutes  the  rose  shade, 
and  sends  the  hat  to  Lady  de  Blank  with 
a  bill  for  seven  or  eight  guineas.  Remember, 
please,  there  are  ostrich  plumes  on  that  hat, 
gloriousl}'  curling,  wavy  plumes,  which  may 
be  recurled  twenty  years  hence  !  And  then, 
Madame  Swagger  must  be  paid  for  knowing 
that  Lady  de  Blank  should  not  wear  magenta, 
and  she  must  be  paid  for  her  name,  too. 

While  Lady  de  Blank's  carriage  is  rolling 
along  Piccadilly,  come  you  with  me  down 
Shored  itch  way,  and  I  will  show  you  where 
Miss  'Arriet  'Obson  can  buy  a  hat  for  three 
shillings  and  sixpence-farthing.  There  it  is, 
in  the  window  of  a  little  shop,  across  the 
doorway  of  which  you  may  read,  "  Headway 
and  Topling — Ladies'  Hats  and  Bonnets." 
But  do  you  say  that  Miss  'Obson  might 
do  better  to  buy  a  naked  hat  and  the 
trimmings  separately  and  trim  the  thing  up 
herself?  But  why  should  Miss  'Obson  take 
all  that  trouble  when  here,  in  this  very  shop 
window,  there  is  a  notice  which  says,  "  No 
Charge  for  Trimming  Hats  and  Bonnets, 
Materials  of  which  are  Bought  Here."  So 
into  the  shop  let  Miss  'Obson  go,  and  she 
will  find  a  rather  pretty  brown  straw  hat  for 
sixpence  three-farthings.  Three  yards  of 
another  shade  of  brown  ribbon — a  shade  that 
will  harmonise  nicely  with  the  brown  straw — 
she  will  get  for  threepence  a  yard.  It  is  satin 
on  one  side  and  cotton-back.  She  will  find 
four  "  ostrich  tips "  for  threepence  three- 
farthings  apiece,  and  three  sprays  of  flowers 
with  leaves  at  twopence  three-farthings  each. 
There's  a  sparkling  buckle  for  three-half- 
pence, and  the  hat  lining  to  go  inside  of  the 
crown  will  be  a  penny  three-farthings.  A 
young  woman  trims  the  hat  while  Miss 
'Obson  waits  ;  and  Miss  'Obson,  paying  three 
shillings  and  sixpence-farthing,  carries  her 
hat  home  in  a  paper  bag. 


From  the  contemplation  of  Miss  'Obson 
and  her  paper  bag,  let  us  go  back  again  to 
the  West-End  and  into  our  carriage  and 
away  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Fitly. 

Mr.  Fitly  is  a  man  dressmaker.  Does  not 
Shakespeare  say  that  "  the  apparel  oft 
proclaims  the  man  ?  "  Well,  that  is  the  way 
with  all  the  garments  that  are  made  at  the 
house  of  Fitly :  they  oft — or,  rather,  they 
always — proclaim  the  man  dressmaker.  Mr. 
Fitly's  windows  are  large,  but  he  tells  you, 
with  adroitness  and  shrewdness  worthy  of  a 
woman,  that  his  creations  are  shown  inside, 
not  outside!  That  is  right — Mr.  Fitly  is 
an  artist.  He  sometimes  spends  hours  and 
hours  in  designing  his  gowns ;  and  why 
should  he  put  them  in  a  window  to  be  badly 
copied  by  would-be  rivals  7 

When  our  carriage  stops  before  Mr.  Fitly's 
door,  a  boy  in  livery,  with  "  Fitly "  on  his 
hatband,  turns  the  handle  for  us  and  escorts 
us  into  the  presence  of  the  great  dressmaker. 
He  leads  us  into  a  large  room,  presses  a 
button,  and  immediately  we  seem  to  be 
surrounded  by  duchesses — handsome,  tall, 
graceful,  stylish.  They  approach  us,  then 
float  away.  They  toss  their  heads,  move 
their  arms  and  elbows  aristocratically,  look 
beautiful  and  self-possessed.  Ah !  if  Mr. 
Fitly  could  only  make  us  like  unto  those 
duchesses!  A  wave  of  the  hand,  and  the 
duchesses  disappear.  They  are  but  model- 
girls,  employed  by  Mr.  Fitly  to  spend 
several  hours  a  day  in  putting  on  and  off 
his  gowns  for  the  inspection  of  his  patrons. 
If  we  like  any  one  of  those  model  dresses, 
he  will  build  us  one  in  exactly  the  same 
style,  or  bring  about  such  alterations  as 
our  particular  make-up  demands.  His 
cheapest  tailor-made  gown  will  cost  twelve 
guineas  ;  but  he  does  not  confine  his  genius 
to  tailor-mades — he  will  manufacture  any  sort 
of  frock  that  the  heart  of  woman  may  desire. 
Seated  at  a  table  is  a  young  lady  who 
is  a  lightning  sketch  artist,  and  will  design 
a  gown  on  paper  in  three  minutes.  If 
it  is  a  handsome  reception  gown  it  may  cost 
us  forty  guineas,  but  when  we  get  it  on, 
it  will  to  all  and  sundry  "  proclaim  the 
man,"  i.e.  Mr.  Fitly,  and  to  have  it  known 
that  one  is  dressed  by  Mr.  Fitly  is  sup- 
posed to  make  any  normal  woman  reason- 
ably happy. 


i 


FINISHING    TOUCHES. 


342 


LIVING    LONDON 


What  do  you  say?  You  have  the  most 
beautiful  twelve-yard  bit  of  crepe-de-chine, 
with  your  linings,  etc.  etc.,  that  you  desire 
made  up  ?  Come  with  me  by  'bus  to  Madame 
Suburbia  (she  is  really  an  Englishwoman), 
who  does  business  at  Walham  Green.  She 
is  one  of  the  "  ladies'-own-materials-made- 
up  "  dressmakers,  and  very  smart  and  clever 


establishment  where  you  will  find  a  limited 
company,  ready  to  take  your  order  for 
dinner,  fish,  fruit,  salad,  meat  and  all,  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  then,  a  flight  or  so  up, 
which  flight  you  take  in  a  lift,  you  will  find 
seated  at  a  table  the  firm's  own  special  artist, 
who  will  render  you  valuable  assistance  in 
the    ordering    of    your    next    week's    "  party 


MODELS  BEKOKE   A    CUSTOMER. 


she  is,  too,  for  she  spends  one  day  of  every 
week  going  about  "  stealing  styles,"  as  she 
vivaciously  puts  it — that  is,  looking  into  the 
West-End  shop  windows  to  see  what  is  the 
very  latest,  and  then  going  home  and  copying 
the  things  for  her  customers  at  the  price  of 
thirty  shillings  or  two  guineas,  they  supplying 
their  own  materials. 

Are  you  in  a  great  hurry  to  order  a  dress 
and  to-night's  dinner  at  the  same  time  ? 
Jump    into     a     hansom,    and     come    to    an 


dress."  What  would  this  smart  young 
woman  suggest  for,  say,  twenty-five  guineas? 
"  Ivory  white  lisse,  tucked  from  the  waist 
down,  frills  at  hem  of  li.sse  and  satin  mingled, 
headed  by  jewelled  embroidery.  Might  not 
the  corsage  be  of  tucked  lisse  to  correspond 
with  berthe  of  jewelled  embroidery  ?  Lined 
with  very  good  silk,  of  course,  madam  ;  and 
you  say  you  have  some  lace  of  your  own  ? 
Yes,  madam,  we  could  do  it  for  twenty-two 
guineas  !     I  would  advise  you,  madam,  by  all 


LONDON'S    DRESSMAKERS    AND    MILLINERS. 


343 


means  to  have  the  tucks  running  in  the  way 
I  have  said,  because  you  are  not  tall.  They 
will  add  greatly  to  your  height !  " 

Ah  !  This  particular  young  woman  is  an 
artist,  just  as  was  Madame  Swagger,  the 
milliner,  who  knew  at  a  glance  that  Lady  de 
Blank  must  not  wear  magenta !  She  has 
quickly  noted  that  you  are  short,  and  she 
uses  her  wits  in  designing  a  gown  to  make 
you  look  tail.  It  is  for  these  "  little  things," 
which  are,  after  all,  such  very  big  and 
important  things,  that  one  must  pay. 

Here  comes  the  costermonger  girl,  aspiring 
to  a  new  hat  and  dress  for  Derby  Day !  She 
will  not  patronise  Miss  Stitchem,  of  Clerken- 
well.  Not  she  !  She  belongs  to  one  of  the 
"  Clothing  Clubs  "  of  the  East-End,  paying 
her  shilling  or  shilling  and  sixpence  every 
week,  till  there  comes  the  time  when  she 
desires  twelve  yards  of  purple  velveteen  and 
a  glorious  ostrich  feather.  Think  you  she 
will  wear  the  threepenny  three-farthing  tips 
which  delight  the  heart  of  'Arriet  'Obson  ? 
No,  indeed !  If  she  has  not  already  put 
enough  money  into  the  "  Clothing  Club  "  to 
cover  the  cost  of  the  velveteen  and  the  plume, 
she  can  get  them  just  the  same,  promising  to 
continue  paying  in  her  weekly  instalments. 
So  for  the  velveteen  she  considers  two  shil- 
lings and  a  penny-ha'penny  a  yard  not  too 


much ;  and  for  the  plume,  what  is  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  shillings  ?  They  will  put  it  in 
the  hat  at  the  "  Clothing  Club  "  for  her,  or 
she  can  do  it  herself,  and  then  she  goes  in 
search  of  Miss  Cutter,  who,  perhaps,  resides 
near  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  will  make 
up  the  purple  velveteen  for  fifteen  shillings 
and   sixpence. 

Your  house-parlourmaid  and  cook  will  not 
pay  quite  so  much  for  dressmaking  as  will 
the  coster-girl.  They  find  dressmakers  in 
the  East-End  and  the  West-End  who  con- 
sider ten-and-sixpenceor  twelve-and-sixpence 
a  satisfactory  reward  for  the  time  and  trouble 
they  spend  upon  a  dress  to  be  worn  on  an 
"  afternoon  out." 

What  money  it  costs,  what  time  it  takes, 
what  work  it  gives,  this  clothing  of  the  female 
portion  of  Living  London  !  Even  dowager- 
countesses  find  pleasure  and  profit  in  the 
millinery  business,  and  the  modern  Madame 
Mantalini  may  frequently  be  seen  nowadays 
in  London,  keeping  up  appearances  for  her 
devoted,  dependent  Mr.  Mantalini  out  of  the 
profits  of  dressmaking !  Thanks  to  them  all, 
from  Madame  Smartly  near  Bond  Street  to 
Miss  Stitchem  of  Clerkenwell,  the  women  of 
London  may  all  be  clothed,  most  expen- 
sively or  most  cheaply,  or  for  a  moderate 
price. 


IN   READINESS   FOR   DERBY   DAY. 


344 


THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. 

By  RICHARD  KEARTON,  F.Z.S. 


KING   VULTURE. 


HIDDEN 
away  in 
the  green 
recesses  of 
Regent's  Park, 
where  a  stran- 
ger might 
consider  him- 
s  e 1 f  in  the 
country  were 
it  not  for  the 
dull  roar  of 
Living  London, 
the  Zoological 
Society  has  its 
magnificent 
collection  of  between  two  and  three  thousand 
animals  in  palaces,  pens,  and  ponds,  scattered 
over  a  space  of  thirty  odd  acres  of  land. 
This  enormous  crowd,  representing  the  wild 
life  of  every  corner  of  the  earth,  gives  em- 
ployment, direct  and  indirect,  to  more  than 
one  hundred  persons,  and  is  visited  annually 
by  considerably  over  half-a-million  people. 

The  Society  was  founded  in  1829,  and  now 
consists  of  .something  like  three  and  a-half 
thousand  Fellows  and  Corres[)onding  Mem- 
bers, the  former  of  whom  are  able  to 
exercise  the  privilege  of  free  admission  to 
the  gardens  during  any  day  of  the  week,  and 
are  in  addition  supplied  with  a  liberal 
number  of  tickets  for  the  use  of  their  families 
and  friends. 


Sundays  are  reserved  exclusively  for  the 
benefit  of  Fellows  and  their  friends,  and 
during  what  is  known  as  the  "London 
Season  "  the  Zoo  forms  one  of  the  favourite 
resorts  of  fashion  and  beauty.  The  hot 
dusty  days  of  July  and  August,  however, 
work  a  complete  change,  and,  as  soon  as  the 
class  whose  pleasant  lot  it  is  to  bask  by  the 
sunny  sea  or  drink  in  the  heather-scented 
air  from  the  purple  mountains  of  the  North 
has  taken  its  departure,  Sunday  tickets  are 
handed  over  to  servants  and  others. 

Monday  is  the  great  day  of  the  week  at 
the  Zoo.  The  price  for  admission  is  then 
lowered  from  one  shilling  to  sixpence  for 
adults;  and  cockneys  and  countrymen  alike 
take  advantage  of  the  concession  and  jostle 
shoulder  to  shoulder  in  one  gazing,  won- 
dering, happy  crowd. 

The  keepers  start  work  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  during  the  summer  months,  and 
an  hour  later  in  the  winter.  Sweeping 
out  the  yards  and  houses,  as  shown  in  the 
illustration  on  the  opposite  page,  and  pre- 
paring the  day's  rations  for  the  animals  are 
amongst  the  early  morning  duties  of  the  men. 
Animals  intended  for  food  are  slaughtered 
in  the  gardens,  and  great  care  is  taken  that 
all  such  creatures  shall  be  in  a  healthy 
condition  and  capable  of  walking  to  the 
shambles. 

Some  idea  of  what  it  costs  to  feed  such 
a  huge  menagerie  may  be  gathered  when  it 


THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. 


345 


is  stated  that  the  meat  and  forage  bill  for 
one  year  mounts  up,  according  to  the  Society's 
annual  report,  to  over  ^4,000.  It  would  be 
even  greater  were  it  not  for  the  amusement 
visitors  derive  from  feeding  many  of  their 
favourites.  For  instance,  the  Bear  that  is 
here  shown  on  the  pole  and  its  companion 
are  seldom  fed  by  the  keepers  during  the 
summer  months,  and  at  the  time  our  photo- 
graph was  taken  the  larger  of  the  pair  of 
bruins  occupying  the  pit  was  too  fat  to  climb 
the  pole.  He  was  extremely  selfish,  however, 
and,  when  he  saw  his  companion  getting  what 
he  evidently  considered  more  than  his  share 
of  buns,  flew  into  such  a  wild  paroxysm  of 
rage  that  he  bit  himself  until  the  blood 
flowed  down  his  shaggy  coat. 

Bears  are  the  most  arrant  cadgers,  and  one 
old  Grizzly,  dwelling  next  to  the  Polar  Bear's 
den,  has  learnt  a  trick  which  does  great 
credit  to  his  intelligence.  He  has  discovered 
that  one  of  the  bars  of  his  cage  has  a  little 
play  in  its  fastenings,  and  when  he  sees  a 
visitor  coming  along  he  slips  a  paw  beneath 
it  and  by  gently  working  the  piece  of  iroi; 
up  and  down  produces  a  loud  tinkle,  which 
hardly  ever  fails  to  attract  attention  or  earn 
a  share  of  the  buns  and  biscuits  so  much 
beloved  in  Beardom. 


SWEEPING   OUT   THE    WILD   GOATS     YARD 


AT   THE    BEAK    PIT  :     REACHING    FOR    A    BUN. 

The  liberality  of  visitors  armed  with  paper 
bags  full  of  provisions  often  far  outruns  their 
knowledge  of  the  feeding  habits  of  the 
creatures  on  whom  they  attempt  to  confer 
a  dietary  favour,  and  it  is  laugh- 
able to  watch  a  grown  and 
apparently  educated  man  gravely 
offering  a  Golden  Eagle  a  penny 
bun  or  a  Kestrel  Hawk  a  milk 
biscuit. 

It  is  sometimes  difficult  during 
the  dark  winter  months  to  induce 
many  of  the  feathered  members 
of  the  collection  to  take  an 
adequate  amount  of  nourishment. 
They  will  not  feed  unless  they 
have  sufficient  daylight  to  do 
so  b}%  and  when  a  London  fog 
suddenly  enwraps  the  Metropolis 
in  its  inky  folds  many  of  them 
mistake  it  for  night  and  retire 
to  roost. 

If  any  of  the  animals  are  taken 
ill  they  are  not,  as  might  be 
supposed,  removed  to  some 
building  in  the  nature  of  a  hos- 
pital, for  if  they  were,  the  effects 
of  removal  and  new  surroundings 


44 


346 


LIVING    LONDON. 


by    saying    that    the    photo- 
grapher   was    a    dentist 


engaged 


the 
new 


READY    FOR   A   MEAL. 

would  retard  rather  than  expedite  recovery. 
The  sick  creature  is,  therefore,  coaxed  by 
all  sorts  of  ingenious  devices  to  take  its 
food. 

If  a  specimen  dies  and  its  dissection  is 
considered  likely  to  lead  to  anything  in  the 
nature  of  an  enlightening  discovery  in  regard 
to  the  disease  which  has  proved  fatal,  its 
body  is  straightway  conveyed  to  the  Pro- 
sector's operating  chamber,  and,  in  the  case 
of  a  large  animal,  opened  by  a  staff  of 
experienced  assistants.  When  the  Prosector 
has  made  hh  posi-ntortent  examination,  which 
sometimes  lasts  three  or  four  days,  he  com- 
municates the  result  of  his  researches  to  the 
members  of  the  Society  in  the  form  of  a 
lecture. 

The  greatest  feat  in  dentistry  ])robably 
ever  performed  on  a  huge  animal  was 
accomplished  by  the  late  Mr.  Eartlett,  who 
removed  one  of  the  upper  tusks  of  the  old 
male  Hi]3popotamus,  the  father  of  the  one 
shown  in  the  above  illustration.  To  obtain 
this  picture  my  brother,  Mr.  Cherry  Kearton, 
was  obliged  to  accompany  the  keeper  into  the 
yard  whilst  I  stood  outside  listening  to  the 
remarks  of  a  much  puzzled  crowd  of  men 
and  women,  who  could  not  understand  why 
the  monster's  mouth  was  being  photographed. 
By  and  by  a  brilliant  idea  struck  an  old 
woman  at  my  elbow,  and  .she  explained  the 
situation   to    the    satisfaction    of  her    friends 


Hippopotamus     for    a 
set  of  teeth. 

Animals  have  their  little 
moodsjust  like  human  beings, 
and  very  small  happenings 
will  ruffle  their  tempers.  The 
old  Hippopotamus  referred 
to  above  is  a  very  fickle 
jade.  In  the  ordinary  course 
of  things  she  will,  when  lying 
under  water  in  her  tank, 
come  up  to  breathe  every 
two  minutes  on  an  average, 
but  if  any  alterations  or  re- 
pairs are  being  done  close 
by  she  "  turns  nasty,"  as  the 
young  keeper  puts  it,  and 
will  remain  under  water  for 
more  than  double  that  time.  The  elder 
keeper  says  that  he  has  known  her  dis- 
appear absolutely  for  as  long  a  period  as 
twenty  minutes. 

The  most  popular  animal  in  the  menagerie 
is  undoubtedly  the  Elephant,  whose  wonderful 


^^^^ 


CHIMPANZEE   A.\D   KEEPER. 


THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. 


347 


trunk,  great  size,  strength,  docility,  and  in- 
telligence appeal  powerfully  to  the  youthful 
imagination.  What  child  could  go  to  the 
Zoo  and  come  away  happy  without  having 
had  an  Elephant  ride  ?  It  would  be  Hamlet 
with  the  Prince  of  Denmark  left  out ;  and 
some  idea  of  the  extent  to  which  this  amuse- 
ment is  indulged  in  can  be  formed  when  it 
is  stated  that  a  single  animal  has  been  known 
to  carry  eleven  hundred  children  upon  its 
back  during  the  course  of  one  day.     I  stood 


incidents  of  history  weighed  heavily  on  her. 
Not  far  away  a  shaggy-maned  monster, 
such  as  we  are  accustomed  to  see  in 
pictures  typifying  Britain,  lies  stretched  on 
his  side  fast  asleep  with  an  admiring  crowd 
of  schoolboys  gazing  proudly  at  him.  A 
Tiny  Tim,  all  there  but  the  long  scarf, 
perches  on  his  father's  shoulder  at  the  back 
of  the  crowd  and  says,  "  Yes,  that's  'im,  dad, 
that's  'im  what  bit  Livinstin'  in  my  book," 
and  the  momentary  gleam  in  his  sickly  little 


AT    TWOPENCE    A   TIME. 


by  one  afternoon  whilst  the  Elephant  walked 
ponderously  between  the  landing  stages  with 
its  freight  of  passengers,  and  was  amused  at 
a  youngster  who  refused  to  quit  his  seat 
until  one  of  a  crowd  of  admiring  aunties  had 
bought  him  "  another  ticket."  He  had 
already  indulged  in  four  Camel  rides  and  his 
second  or  third  on  the  Elephant,  and  was  still 
gaily  extracting  twopenny  tickets  from  his 
feminine  relatives  when  I  left. 

In  the  Lion  House  the  great  members  of 
the  Cat-tribe  dwell.  Here  is  Kruger's  Lioness, 
looking  sad  and  solemn  as  if  the  chequered 


eyes  testifies   his   satisfaction  at  having  met 
an  old  travel-book  friend  in  the  flesh. 

Nearly  all  maneless  Lions  are  mistaken  for 
Lionesses,  and  the  signs  of  sex  on  the  name- 
card  fastened  in  front  of  each  den  are  not 
understood  by  one  person  out  of  every 
hundred,  judging  from  the  remarks  over- 
heard whilst  standing  by.  It  is  here  one 
sees  the  budding  Landseers  at  work.  An 
artist  told  me  that  whilst  engaged  upon  a 
life-sized  picture  of  a  tiger's  head,  the  animal 
caught  sight  of  its  finished  eye  on  the  canvas, 
and  after  gazing  with  rivetted  attention  upon 


348 


LIVING    LONDON. 


it  for  several  seconds  flew  into  a  great  rage. 
And  from  my  knowledge  of  the  peculiar 
influence  exercised  over  wild  animals  by 
anything  in  the  nature  of  an  eye,  I  do  not 
think  the  gentleman  was  e.xaggerating  the 
verities  of  his  brush.  It  is  not  every  artist, 
however,  who,  after  setting  up  his  or  her  easel 
in  the  Lion  House,  can  paint  an  animal  like 
the  gentleman  in  question,  and,  judging  from 
what  one  occasionally  sees,  some  of  them  are 
deeply  guilty  of  the  eternal  human  weakness 
of  trying  to  dodge  the  elementary  drudgery 
of  their  craft  and  attempting  to  paint  before 
they  have  learned  to  draw. 

The  Lions,  Tigers,  Leopards,  Jaguars,  and 
other  animals  are  fed  during  the  summer 
months  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and 
just  before  that  hour  visitors  may  be  seen 
streaming  from  all  quarters  of  the  gardens 
to  see  the  great  cats  gnaw  their  meat  and 
listen  to  the  deafening  roar  of  the  king  of 
beasts  who  gives  tongue  by  way  of  grace. 
Two  other  interesting  scenes  are  the  feeding 
of  the  Pelicans  and  the  Sea-lion. 

The  Monkey  House  supplies  the  real  fun 
of  the  fair  at  the  Zoo,  and  it  is  here  one 
sees  the  supreme  happiness  of  childhood — 
especially  if  someone  has  eluded  the  vigilant 
eye  of  the  keeper  and  succeeded  in  surrep- 
titiously smuggling  a  reel  of  cotton  into  one 


HUNGRY   PELICANS. 


MUZZLING   A    VICIOUS   ALLIGATOR. 

of  the  large  cages  tenanted  by  a  number 
of  small  monkeys.  On  such  an  occasion  I 
have  heard  the  building  ring  with  peals  of 
delighted  laughter  at  the  droll  tricks  the 
nimble  little  fellows  in  the  cage  played  with 
each  other  and  the  unravelled  thread. 

In    the  Ape  House,  where   the    far-famed 

Chimpanzee  "  Sally  "  used  to  dwell,  is  found 

the    highest    degree    of    animal    intelligence, 

and    often    the  dryest    of  human    wit.     One 

day    I    heard    a    little    boy   exclaim    whilst 

looking  at  an  Orang  Outan,    "  Oh,  ma,  isn't 

he  like  a  working-man?"  and 

an     elderly    lady    express    a 

wi.sh  that  she  might  be  able 

to    "  stay    for   ever   with    the 

dear  creature." 

•       Here  I  have  seen  poor  old 

Sally    make    a     bouquet     of 

straws    and    place    it    in    the 

button-hole    of    her     keeper, 

and     later    on     a     successor 

feed   " the  baby  "  (a  younger 

member  of  the  species  living 

in    a    cage   close    by)   with  a 

spoon  for  the  edification  and 

amu.sement    of   an    admiring 

crowd. 


THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. 


349 


The  King  Vulture — of  which  a  photographic 
reproduction  is  given  on  p.  344 — attracts  a 
good  deal  of  attention  during  the  summer 
months  (when  he  and  his  companion  are  on 
view)  by  reason  of  his  beautiful  fawn  or  cream 
colour,  which  renders  him  the  handsomest 
bird  of  his  family.  This  species  is  a  native 
of  tropical  America,  and  when  at  home  lives 
upon  snakes  and  carrion,  from  which  it  drives 
all  other  species. 

The  stock  of  specimens  is  constantly  being 
replenished  from  four  sources. — gift,  purchase. 


a   number   of  Parrots   are   given    an   airing 
outside  the  house  devoted  to  these  birds. 

The  head  keeper  told  me  one  day,  in 
answer  to  an  inquiry,  that  the  animals  are 
wonderfully  quiet  at  night  time.  During 
the  autumn  months  the  birds  listen  to  the 
cries  of  migrants  flying  over  lamp-lit  London 
on  their  way  to  the  sunny  South,  and  cock 
their  heads  on  one  side  as  if  trying  to  detect 
their  friends  passing  high  overhead.  During 
his  nocturnal  rounds  of  inspection,  this 
gentleman   once    had   the   great   satisfaction 


FEEnlXG    THE    SEA-LION. 


exchange,  and  breeding  ;  and  it  is  surprising 
when  one  comes  to  examine  the  history 
tablets  on  the  pens  and  dens  how  many  of 
the  specimens  have  been  born  under  our 
dull  English  skies. 

On  rare  occasions  animals  have  succeeded 
in  escaping  from  their  cages  in  the  Zoo, 
and  in  one  instance  a  monkey  that  had 
gained  its  freedom  had  to  be  shot  because 
it  terrified  the  Antelopes  to  a  point  of 
danger  which  rendered  this  drastic  course 
necessary.  Small  feathered  specimens  have 
from  time  to  time  been  stolen  from  the 
Parrot  House,  and  on  one  occasion  a  Bell 
Bird  was  abstracted  by  some  cruel  miscreant 
who  wrung  its  neck.    During  suitable  weather 


of  discovering  how  the  Giraffe  disposes  its  ab- 
normally long  neck  whilst  it  sleeps,  namely, 
by  lying  it  along  its  side,  and  resting  its 
head  in  the  hollow  between  the  front  of 
the  thigh  and  the  ribs. 

Some  of  the  specimens  in  the  collection 
are  very  spiteful  towards  their  fellow  captives, 
and  the  best  places  to  witness  the  bullying 
cowardice  of  the  strong  when  their  interests 
clash  with  the  weak  are  at  the  Wolf  Lairs 
and  the  Reptile  House.  Old  Alligators 
sometimes'  turn  vicious  and  kill  younger 
and  weaker  members  of  their  species.  They 
have  in  consequence  to  be  muzzled  and  put 
under  restraint,  as  shown  in  our  illustration 
on  the  opposite  page. 


350 


LIVING    LONDON. 


LOADING    UP   AN   ANlMALS'    VAN. 

About  twenty  years  ago,  when  Regent's 
Park  could  shake  hands  with  the  open 
country,  numbers  of  Reed  Warblers  bred 
every  summer  in  the  Gardens  ;  and  the  un- 
welcome visits  of  Wild  Duck  rendered  it 
difficult  to  keep  the  species  on  different 
ponds  pure  bred.  A  Raven  and  a  Magpie 
have  voluntarily  come  to  live  in  the  Gar- 
dens. In  the  spring-time  the  latter  goes 
forth  in  search  of  a  mate,  and  upon  return- 
ing builds  a  nest  close  by  the  Zoo.  The 
former  bird  in  all  probability  escaped 
from  a  private  cage  somewhere  in  the 
Metropolis. 

A  list  of  duplicate  animals  for  sale  is 
kept  at  the  Superintendent's  office,  and  the 
illustration  above  shows  the  keepers  hard 
at  work  in  the  early  morning  sending  away 
a  vanload   of  superfluities   to   the   docks   to 


be  shipped  for  Calcutta.  New 
animals  that  have  just  arrived 
after  a  long  voyage  are  often 
taken  in  while  the  average 
citizen  sleeps. 

The  keepers  are  without 
e.xception  the  most  amiable 
set  of  men  I  ever  met  in  my 
life.  In  spite  of  the  Secre- 
tary's admirable  "  Guide  to 
the  Gardens,"  and  the  plans 
and  printed  notices  scattered 
up  and  down  the  grounds  like 
daisies  on  a  village  green,  the 
poor  fellows  are  pestered  to 
death  by  questions  which  are 
fired  off  at  them  incessantly 
from  early  morn  till  dewy 
eve.  When  a  man  can  answer  with  pleasant 
politeness  the  same  inquiry  half  a  dozen 
times  in  as  many  minutes,  and  the  question 
contains  a  strong  element  of  absurdity,  I 
reckon  he  has  succeeded  in  chaining  down 
a  great  part  of  the  old  Adam  within  him.  A 
strange  thing  is  that  visitors  will  repeatedly 
ask  for  something  which  was  removed  before 
even  they  themselves  were  born  from  where 
they  expected  to  find  it. 

When  the  summer  is  over  and  gone,  the 
military  bands  cease  to  play  in  the  grounds 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  the  Elephants  and 
Camels  discontinue  giving  happy  children 
rides  upon  their  backs,  many  of  the  waitresses 
arc  discharged  by  the  refreshment  contractors, 
and  a  sense  of  forgottenness,  so  far  as  the 
public  is  concerned,  settles  down  upon  the 
great  menagerie. 


A  SIESTA. 


351 


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STUDENTS    AT    DINNEK. 

WIG    AND    GOWN    IN    LONDON. 

By  HENRY  LEACH. 


THERE  is  nothing  in  all  London  or  in 
London  life  which  is  so  essentially  of 
itself  and  of  naught  else  as  Counsel- 
dom,  the  small  uneven  area  on  the  boundary 
of  the  City  where  stalk  in  sombre  wigged 
and  gowned  dignity  the  men  of  higher  law- 
The  Middle  and  Inner  Temples,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  and  Gray's  Inn  are  the  Legal  Quarter 
in  a  fuller  and  more  complete  sense  than 
that  in  which  any  other  little  piece  of  the 
great  Metropolis  is  claimed  by  any  other 
profession. 

We  talk  of  the  machinery  of  the  law,  by 
which  we  usually  mean  not  so  much  the 
minor  engines  which  work  the  police  and 
county  courts  and  bring  about  the  convey- 
ance of  property  in  good  and  proper  order, 
as  the  greater,  hea\ier,  slower,  and  more 
rattling  instruments  which  drive  the  King's 
High  Courts  of  Justice.  Then,  every  little 
pulley,  every  ounce  of  steam,  every  drop  of 
oil,  which  make  this  machinery  work,  are 
manufactured  here  in  this  Legal  Quarter. 
Parliament  and  the  people  supply  the  raw 
ingredients ;  the  Inns  do  all  the  rest,  and 
do  it  in  a  grandiose  spirit  of  autocracy. 
They  supply  the  judges,  from  the  great  Lord 
Chief  downwards ;    they    supply    the  King's 


Counsel,  and  the  barristers  of  lesser  and 
lesser  degree,  to  the  humble,  patient,  and 
often  weary  "  devil,"  and  they  are  breeding 
up  always  within  these  their  own  preserves 
a  new  brood  of  the  wigged  and  gowned 
species,  who  in  good  time  will  themselves 
carry  on  the  great  work  of  judgment-making 
at  the  standard  rates  of  anything  up  to  a 
thousand  guineas  a  time — or  more. 

For  nothing  must  be  held  so  intact  as  the 
conservatism  of  the  law.  Great  movements 
of    reform    must    be    held    back    from    the 


INVITATION  TO   A   "  GRAND   NIGHT." 


352 


LIVING    LONDON. 


ponderous  wooden  gates  of  the  Inns  of 
Court ;  and,  within,  the  whole  legal  family 
must  in  a  very  large  professional  sense  lead 
the  recluse  life.  Counsel  may  indeed  be 
born  in  the  Inns,  they  may  grow  up  in  the 
Inns,  often  enough  they  live  altogether  in 
and  make  the  Inns  their  home,  and  they 
have  been  known  upon  occasion  to  die  in 
the  Inns,  and  thence  be  gathered  to  their 
legal  fathers.  Thus  may  they  run  the  whole 
gamut  of  the  life  of  law  amidst  the  dirty 
bricks  and  tiny  dusty  windows  of  these 
strange  old-world  places. 

The  four  Inns — the  Inner  Temple,  the 
Middle  Temple,  Lincoln's  and  Gra}''s,  as 
aforementioned — all  amount  to  pretty  much 
the  same  thing  at  the  finish,  standing  in 
somewhat  the  same  relation  to  each  other  as 
do  the  Universities.  The  student  of  law 
may  enter  his  name  at  an\'  of  them  and  rise 
to  the  Bench.  A  man  chooses  his  Inn,  pays 
a  guinea  for  a  preliminary  certificate,  and, 
with  or  without  a  preliminary  examination, 
according  to  circumstances,  he  is  "  admitted." 
Enter  now  the  student  into  the  life  of  the  Inns, 
and  into  the  study  of  all  the  forms  and 
customs  which  appertain  to  the  legal  dinner. 

It  is  evident  that 
one  of  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  the  law  is  the 
proper  preservation   of 


A   TE.MPLE   DOORWAY    (2,   PUMP   COURT). 

self,  and  it  is  instanced  in  the  dinners  of  the 
Inns.  It  is  their  theory  and  their  practice  to 
turn  from  labour  to  refreshment  with  a  soul- 
-satisfying  regularity,  and  there  is  a  suggestion 
that  any  preponderance  of  attention  should 
be  on  the  side  of  the  refreshment.  The 
dinners  of  the  Inns  are  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  Inns  ;  in  fact,  the  dinners  are  the  Inns. 
The  rest  at  a  pinch  may  pass.  So  the 
student  is  taught  to  dine    in    hall    to    begin 


A    TEMPLK    FLOWER    SHOW. 


WIG    AND    GOWN    IN    LONDON. 


353 


with.  He  must  go  on  eating  and  eating,  till 
in  the  fulness  of  time  he  becomes,  almost 
as  a  natural  consequence,  a  barrister. 

Dining  in  hall  is  somewhat  of  a  stately  if 
light-hearted  affair.  The  hall  itself  is  an 
impressive  place.  There  are  huge  oaken 
beams  and  beautiful  carvings  and  there  is 
a  wealth  of  space  along  and  above  which  pro- 
duce a  great  effect.  Everything  is  old,  solid, 
and  of  the  best ;  and  one  feels  somehow  that 
these  noble  apartments  have  gone  on  and 
will  go  on  increasing  in 
their  splendid  worth  like 
wines  of  a  rare  and  ex- 
quisite vintage.     So  he 


and  rise  with  age  and  wisdom  along  the  hall, 
till  at  the  end  in  presidency  is  the  senior 
barrister  of  the  evening.  The  mess  cu.stoms 
differ  at  each  Inn  ;  but  perhaps  the  one 
which  has  preserved  most  completely  the 
traditions  of  the  remote  past  is  Gray's,  where 
the  senior  of  the  mess  drinks  to  every  gentle- 
man present  during  dinner,  mentioning  each 
one  by  name,  only  the  students  being  given 
the  "  Mr.  "  prefix. 

In  all  the  Inns  except  the  Middle  Temple 
each  mess  carves  for 
itself  The  fare  is  good, 
but  not  elaborate.  There 
are   soup,    meat,  sweets 


GOSSIP  IN   THE   COMMON    ROOM. 


who  dines  in  the  hall  of,  say,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  remembers  it.  The  speakers'  voices, 
revelling  in  such  rare  acoustic  properties 
as  are  here,  glide  from  front  to  back  and 
from  side  to  side,  with  the  clearness  and 
resonance  of  bells,  floating  in  their  course 
past  the  large  and  handsome  paintings  on 
the  walls  of  the  legal  lights  of  other  days, 
heroes  themselves  of  a  thousand  triumphs 
in  elocution  at  the  Bar,  eaters  themselves  of 
the  maximum  of  dinners  in  hall. 

Lo !  the  first  entry  here  of  the  student — 
unsophisticated,  eager.  He  comes  on  his  first 
night  and  takes  his  place  at  the  very  last 
mess  in  the  hall.  Each  mess  consists  of  four 
students,  ascending  in  seniority,  so  that  when 
the  students  have  run  out,  the  barristers  begin 
45 


and  cheese.  When  there  is  no  soup  there  is 
fish  instead,  and,  in  deference  to  the  consider- 
able Roman  Catholic  membership  of  the  Inns, 
fish  is  .served  on  Fridays.  The  meal  costs 
two  shillings  or  half-a-crown  per  student, 
the  former  price  ruling  at  the  Middle 
Temple  and  the  latter  at  the  Inner,  and 
as  each  student  is  entitled  to  half  a 
bottle  of  claret  or  port  it  cannot  be  con- 
sidered expensive.  Here  it  may  be  incident- 
ally mentioned  that  on  Call  nights  and 
Grand  nights  the  allowance  of  wine  is 
increased  to  the  extent  of  two  bottles  per 
barristers'  mess,  and  one  bottle  per  students' 
mess.  In  the  glorious  days  of  old  at  Gray's 
Inn  four  bottles  used  to  be  allowed  per  mess 
on    Great    Grand    Night — occurring    in    the 


354 


LIVING    LONDON. 


Trinity  term — but  reason  was  found  for  a 
reduction. 

These  dinner  details  are  not  irrelevant,  for, 
as  I  have  indicated,  the  story  of  the  Inns  and 
of  the  legal  life  is  to  be  told  in  dinners  eaten. 
Meanwhile,  the  student  is  reading,  and 
perhaps  attending  a  few  lectures,  and  in  due 
course  of  dinners  and  exams,  comes  the 
night  which  will  be  for  ever  memorable,  the 
Call  Night,  when  the  student  is  the  student 
no  longer.  At  the  Inns  the  ceremonies  of 
Call  Night  differ  ;  but  in  each  case  the  men 
are  "  called "  before  dinner  and  before  the 
Benchers  of  the  Inn.  In  the  Middle  Temple 
they  are  "  called  "  in  wigs  and  gowns,  but 
elsewhere  in  gowns  only.  It  is  a  great  night, 
and  one  which  the  young  barrister  bloods  feel 
should  be  "  kept  up."  In  the  Middle  Temple 
they  have  the  special  privilege  of  asking  their 
friends  to  a  Call  party  within  the  hall  itself 
after  dinner.  Where  the  Inn  does  not 
recognise  the  need  for  a  comprehensive  con- 
viviality, it  is  safe  to  say  that  a  Call  party 
is  almost  invariably  held  in  the  chambers  of 
some  barrister  friend  in  the  Temple  or  north 
of  it. 

Of  the  glorious  deeds  which  have  been 
performed  on  these  occasions,  when  spirits  are 
high  and  discretion  is  at  a  discount,  there  are 
many  stories  told.  Thus  now  and  then,  after 
such  a  party,  it  is  noticed  curiously  enough 
that  the  knockers  have  been  removed  from 
the  doors  of  every  adjacent  set  of  chambers. 
The  barristers  who  reign  within  are  mightily 
offended,  and  a  report  is  made  to  the 
Benchers,  who  govern  the  Inns.  But 
Benchers  are  very,  very  human.  Dreams  of 
days  of  their  own  when  youth  had  its  fling 
are  conjured  up,  and  a  reflection  is  made 
upon  all  the  possibilities  of  "judicial  ignor- 
ance," as  sometimes  exemplified  by  that 
great  master  of  it  who  was  once  Mr.  Justice 
Hawkins.  Therefore,  say  the  benevolent 
Benchers,  they  do  not  know  what  knockers 
are,  and  as  for  Call  parties,  no  such  things 
are  recognised  by  the  Inns,  and  therefore  no 
members  of  the  Inn  could  have  been  guilty. 
With  no  knockers  and  no  Call  party  the  case 
of  the  complainants  falls  to  the  ground.  The 
ex-students  receive  a  gentle  hint  that  the 
knockers  should  be  put  back,  and  then  the 
peace  and  goodwill  of  old  reign  in  the  Inn 
once  more. 


The  Grand  Night  is  a  grand  and  most 
popular  institution.  Then  the  Benchers  and 
the  highest  dignitaries  of  the  law  foregather 
with  the  barristers  and  students  in  their  Inn 
and  invite  outside  guests  to  dinner,  often  the 
most  celebrated  lights  of  other  professions. 
It  is  strange  that  only  solicitors  are  barred, 
an  exception  being  made  in  the  case  of  the 
President  of  the  Incorporated  Law  Society. 
The  City  Solicitor  has  also  been  a  guest.  An 
invitation  to  Grand  Night  should  never  be 
refused.  The  dinner  is  good,  the  wines  are 
excellent,  and  a  stately  decorum  mingles  with 
happiness  and  goodfellowship  as  the  Benchers 
sit  after  dinner  and  drink  wine  with  their 
guests.  And,  best  of  all,  there  is  a  strict  rule 
of  "  No  speeches,"  broken,  as  far  as  one  can 
remember,  only  once,  and  that  was  when  the 
King  as  Prince  of  Wales  proposed  the  health 
of  the  late  Lord  Coleridge,  Treasurer  of  the 
year,  as  far  back  as  1888,  a  circumstance 
which  prompted  the  eminent  lawyer  to  say, 
in  response,  that  David  was  right  when  he 
said,  centuries  ago,  "  Put  not  your  trust  in 
princes."  On  these  occasions  the  students 
sing  songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  band 
in  the  gallery  ;  at  Gray's  we  see  the  passing 
of  the  loving  cup,  and  the  quaint  drinking 
to  the  toast  of  "  the  glorious,  pious,  and 
immortal  memory  of  good  Queen  Bess " 
(good  friend  of  the  Inn  that  she  was)  ;  and 
all  is  pleasantry  and  contentment. 

The  Inns  are  largely  residential.  The 
records  show  that  between  three  and  four 
hundred  persons  live  in  the  Temple.  One 
Member  of  Parliament  has  lived  there  for 
over  twenty  years,  and  there  are  several 
popular  K.C.'s — and  some  married  ones — who 
abide  there  during  the  week.  Very  few 
barristers  live  in  Gray's  Inn,  which  has 
become  quite  a  solicitors'  quarter.  Chambers 
in  the  Temple  are  comfortable  enough  for 
the  bachelor,  and  they  are  cheap  as  London 
chambers  go,  for  two  or  three  panelled  rooms 
— not  to  mention  quite  a  large  number  of 
rats — may  be  obtained  for  ;£'6o  a  year.  There 
are  housekeepers  to  make  small  meals,  and  if 
the  resident  is  a  member  of  the  Inn  he  may 
obtain  lunch  and  often  dinner  in  the  Common 
Room.  But  not  all  the  names  one  .sees  in 
rows  above  each  other  on  each  side  of  the 
doors  leading  to  the  gloomy  stone  steps  and 
thence  to  the  oaks  of  the  occupiers  betoken 


A    "GRAND    NIGHT"    TOAST,    GRAY'S    INN. 
"To  the  glorious,  pious,  and  immortal  memory  of  good  Queen  Bess." 


356 


LIVING    LONDON. 


actual  residence — for  even  that  of  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  may  be  found  at  2, 
Pump  Court.  The  fledgling  barrister  is 
frequently  poor  enough  in  the  world's  goods, 
and  works  by  night  in  Fleet  Street  for  the 
living  that  the  law  does  not  afford  him. 
For  the  advantage  of  him  and  others  there 
is  often  posted  up  in  the  side  windows  of 
those  old-fashioned  wig  shops  in  the  Temple, 
amongst  the  ad\ertisements  of  chambers 
to  let,  one  which  indicates  that  a  person 
may  secure  the  privilege  of  having  his 
name  painted  on  a  door  for  a  comparatively 
trifling  annual  charge. 

The  tragedies  of  the  Inns — the  life  stories  of 
men  who  have  come  enthusiastic  to  the  pro- 
fession of  the  law,  and  have  utterly  failed — 
would  fill  as  many  pages  as  are  contained  in 
a  complete  set  of  Law  Reports.  There  are 
about  eight  thousand  barristers,  and  only  about 
one  in  eight  is  making  a  living.  Amongst 
the  juniors  ;£'2,ooo  to  i^3,ooo  a  year  is  a  large 
income.  The  life  of  the  successful  counsel 
is,  of  course,  a  glorious  one.  He  is  an  idol 
of  his  Inn,  a  favourite  in  the  Courts,  a  lion 
in  society,  and,  most  likely,  an  occasional 
debater    in    Parliament.     When   there    is    a 


vacancy  on  the  Bench  his  name  may  be  men- 
tioned, and  in  the  fulness  of  time,  if  he  thinks 
the  dignity  of  a  judgeship  is  worth  the  price 
that  will  have  to  be  paid  for  it  in  loss  of  fees, 
he  may  go  up.  Not  every  leading  counsel 
can  afford  to  be  a  judge  at  ;£'5,ooo  a  year. 

So  do  students,  counsel,  judges,  come  and 
go,  and  so  life  at  the  Inns  in  wig  and  gown  is 
lived  and  will  be  lived.  Terms  begin  in  a 
hurry  of  activity  and  end  again,  and  the 
Temple  sleeps  through  the  Vacation.  Like 
most  other  things  it  has  its  seasons,  and 
its  fairest  is  in  the  summer  term,  when  ladies 
in  light  muslins  may  be  seen  flitting  through 
the  squares  and  alleys  or  along  King's  Bench 
Walk  ;  when  athletic  counsel  indulge  in 
tennis  on  the  green  lawns  ;  and  when  for  a  day 
or  two  the  Temple  Flower  Show  is  one  of  the 
attractions  of  a  London  season.  Then,  too,  the 
Americans  and  the  country  sightseers  ramble 
about.  They  take  their  guide  books  with 
them  into  the  rare  Temple  Church,  and  they 
wonder  that  there  can  be  such  a  peaceful 
spot  in  the  heart  of  London  as  where  the 
fountain  plays  and  the  birds  tv/itter  in  the 
trees  round  about,  while  loungers  and  nurse- 
maids sit  on  the  benches  listening. 


IN    FOUNTAIN    COURT. 


357 


I 


LOAFING     LONDON. 

By  ARTHUR  MORRISON. 

T  is  in  London  that  the  loafer  attains  his      and    a    convergence    toward    fully    licensed 
proper  perfection — -even  the  perfection  of     premises, 
specialisation.   The  country  hand  in  most 
trades — cabinet-making  and  cobbling,  as  well 
as  loafing — is  commonly  perforce  something 
of  an  "  all-round  man,"  and  because  of  that 
fact,     though     a 
practitioner  of 
broader     experi- 
ence, he  fails  to 
reach  the  special- 
ised     excellence 
of  the  Londoner 
in    a    single    de- 
partment.      Out 
of    London    the 
loafer    is    rarely 
amenable    to 
classification  :  he 
loafs     how     and 
where  the  hour's 
mood    may   lead 
him,     dependent 
on  an  inborn  in- 
stinct    to     keep 
him  within  gentle 
hail    of  fluid  re- 
freshment ;     and 
he    is    apt    to 

fail     of     interest  ^he  theatrical  loafer.  from     a     calling 

because    of  a  without   working 

certain     sameness     and     lack    of    character,      in   it.      So    that    when    the   corner   of  York 

But  in  the  capital  the  principle  of  division  Road  was  the  chief  hiring  market  in  the 
of  loafing  is  carried  far:  the  East-End  loafer  "show"  business  (it  has  fallen  from  its 
differs  in  professional  style  from  the  loafer  estate  of  late),  and  since,  in  many  places 
of  the  West ;  the  Fleet  Street  loafer,  the  near  the  Strand,  it  was  easy  to  observe  the 
park  loafer,  the  theatre  loafer,  the  sporting  theatrical  loafer  at  his  best.  Indeed,  a 
loafer,  the  market  loafer — all  have  their  thoroughfare  in  the  Strand  district  has  been 
departments,  their  particular  manners,  their  informally  rechristened  "  Prossers'  Avenue " 
views  of  the  world  and  of  their  own  vocation,  in  his  honour;  the  substantive  "  prosser  " 
craft,  or,  as  perhaps  one  should  rather  say,  being  derived  from  the  verb  "to  pross," 
mystery.  It  is  a  fact  that  may  easily  escape  which  is  to  persistently  obtain  liquid  re- 
the  notice  of  the  casual  observer,  who  is  freshment  at  the  expense  of  anybody  but 
deceived  by  certain  characteristics  common  the  "prosser." 
to  loafers  in  general — such  as  exterior  grease  The  theatrical  loafer  may  not  be  an  actor 


fm 

vMSk  fF-'^ilPI 

^ 

B^^ 

■    ^■'1  ^1 

ISfiDi 

9V  W^^^  i^^^^^l^^i  nlbV  ^flH^H^^M 

\ 

H'M'as^c-K, 

Few  indeed  are  the  loafers  who  carry  the 
label  of  their  department  plainly  and  visibly 
upon  them  ;  but  among  them,  perhaps,  the 
theatrical    loafer    is    chief      Not    the    mere 

loafer  about 
theatres,  who  is 
but  a  variety  of 
the  general  loafer, 
but  the  loafer 
with  a  pretence 
to  the  appearance 
of  an  actor  or  a 
music  -  hall  per- 
former. He  is  in 
fact  rarely  either, 
but  commonly 
belongs  to  the 
class  of  loafers 
who  attach  them- 
selves as  para- 
sites to  divers 
trades  and  pro- 
fessions ;  having 
the  secret  of 
somehow  ex- 
tracting a  pre- 
carious   living 


LIVING    LONDON. 


THE    CLUB    LOAFliK. 

— often  is  not  one,  in  fact — but  in  that  case 
he  is  at  pains  to  look  more  like  one  than 
the  real  thing.  No  real  actor  has  so  blue 
a  muzzle,  so  heavy  a  slouch,  nor  such  an 
amazing  cock  of  the  hat ;  and  no  real  actor 
— except  a  very  young  one — obscures  his 
speech  with  so  much  "gagging"  and  "fluffing" 
and  "ponging,"  and  the  like  technical  slang. 
By  his  talk — and  he  will  talk  as  long  as  you 
will  minister  to  his  "prossing" — you  will 
judge  him  a  genius  of  astonishingly  long 
experience  on  the  boards,  reduced  to  his 
present  pass  by  disgraceful  ]3rofessional 
jealousy  and  unscrupulous  oppression.  He 
will  talk  familiarly  of  "Fred"  Leslie,  "Johnny" 
Toole,  "Teddy"  Sothern,  and  even,  if  he 
judges  you  green  indeed,  of  "Alf"  Wigan, 
"Bob"  Keeley,  and  "Jack"  Buckstone. 
Sometimes  it  is  possible  that  he  may  have 
seen  some  of  the  men  he  speaks  of  thus 
companionably — may  even  be  an  old  actor 
who,  through  long  idleness,  has  degenerated 
into  a  loafer,  and  is  well  content  to  remain 
one  ;  though  it  would  be  unsafe  to  assume 
anything  of  the  kind. 


It  is  at  times  a  little  difficult  to 
distinguish  the  loafer  from  an  un- 
fortunate actor  who  is  really  looking 
for  work ;  but  he  is,  in  fact,  a  far 
cleverer  man.  The  poor  actor  works 
hard  and  cannot  get  a  living  from 
the  stage  ;  the  loafer  never  works  at 
all,  and  yet  somehow  he  lives,  and 
it  must  be  conjectured  that  the  living 
comes,  in  some  obscure  alchemic 
way,  from  the  stage.  I  have  some- 
times supposed  that  he  may  be  a 
theatre  charwoman's  husband,  or 
perhaps  a  dresser's.  In  any  case 
there  he  loafs  and  "  presses,"  blue- 
faced,  greasy  and  seedy,  but  with 
an  air  and  aspect  not  to  be  described ; 
not  smart,  not  knowing,  though  in- 
tended to  be  both ;  but  always 
aggressively  suggesting  the  stage  he 
has  never  stood  on. 

There  are  two  other  sorts  of  loafers 
who  have  in  many  ways  a  likeness 
to  the  theatrical  loafer — the  art  loafer 
and  the  Fleet  Street  loafer.  The 
art  loafer  we  see  less  of  nowadays 
than  we  did.  Painters  keep  to  their 
studios  more  and  leave  taverns  alone, 
so  that  the  loafer  finds  access  difficult.  He 
was  (and  is,  in  his  survivals)  a  harm- 
less loafer  enough,  and  I  almost  think  he 
must  have  some  little  income  or  allowance. 
Perhaps  he,  too,  has  a  wife  to  keep  him. 
He  is  less  of  a  sponge,  I  fancy,  than  most 
other  loafers,  and  though  he  can  neither 
paint  nor  draw,  he  can  wear  a  shapeless  felt 
hat,  an  uncombed  beard,  and  a  seedy  caped 
cloak,  and  he  can  talk  studio  "shop"; 
which  things  seem  to  satisfy  his  ambition 
well  enough.  I  think  he  is  near  extinction. 
But  for  the  Fleet  Street  loafer  something 
like  immortality  may  be  predicted.  He  has 
no  distinctive  uniform  like  the  art  loafer's. 
He  is  easily  distinguishable,  however,  from 
the  dock,  market,  or  average  East-End 
loafer  by  the  fact  that  his  dress,  deplorably 
worn,  damaged  and  greasy  as  it  may  be, 
has  in  cut  and  material  always  some  faint 
pretension  to  gentility,  always  some  hint 
of  better  day.s.  The  tall  hat  may  be  badly 
gone  at  the  brim,  may  show  traces  of  old 
cracks  and  knocks ;  but  it  has  been  oiled 
or  tallowed  streakily  for  months,  even  years, 


LOAFLMG    LONDON. 


359 


and  perhaps  of  late  has  been  anointed  with 
something  cheaper  even  than  oil  or  tallow  ; 
and,  moreover,  it  is  a  tall  hat,  which  means 
a  great  deal.  The  coat  may  scarce  have  a 
button  left,  it  may  be  rent,  tied  with  string, 
pinned  high  at  the  throat  because  there 
is  no  collar — perhaps  no  shirt — beneath  it ; 
but  it  is  a  frock-coat,  once  black,  and  it 
once  fitted  the  wearer — perhaps  not  this 
wearer — without  a  crease.  I  think  I  am 
often  disposed  to  regard  the  Fleet  Stieet 
loafer  with  some  indulgence,  because  I  have 
known  more  than  one,  and  more  than  two, 
who  were  not  always  loafers ;  who  worked, 
and  worked  hard ;  and  whose  misfortunes 
were  as  much  the  occasion  of  their  downfall 
as  their  faults.  Some  of  them  had  faults, 
it  is  true ;  but  so  have  several  other  people 
I   have  met,  who  are  not  loafers  at  all. 

But  it  is  not  with  exceptions  that  my 
business  lies,  and  probably  the  average  Fleet 
Street  loafer  is  no  better  than  the  rest.  He 
does  not  work,  but  he  gets  a  subsistence — a 
poor  one,  I  fear — out  of  Fleet  Street  by 
means  partly  as  occult  as  those  used  by 
other  loafers,  though  not  wholly.  There 
is  a  process  somewhat  akin  to  "  prossing " 
which  is  called  "tapping,"  greatly  in  practice 
among  loafers,  but  more  prevalent  in  Fleet 


Street  than  in  most  other  parts.  When 
Mr.  Montague  Tigg  said,  "We  now  come  to 
the  ridiculously  small  amount  of  eighteen- 
pence!"  he  was  attempting  to  "tap"  Mr. 
Pecksniff.  In  plain  words,  "  to  tap "  is  to 
beg  money  under  a  pretence  of  borrowing  it. 
The  "  tapper "  is  an  artist  of  many  grades, 
through  which  he  descends  with  more  or  less 
rapidity,  according  to  skill  and  plausibility. 
He  begins  with  sovereigns,  or  even  more — 
though  this  is  not  in  Fleet  Street — and 
sinks  by  way  of  the  half-sovereign,  five  shil- 
lings, and  half-crown — many  hang  on  a  long 
time  at  the  half-crown  stage — to  the  shilling, 
the  sixpence,  the  "few  coppers,"  and  even 
at  last  to  the  mere  pitiful  single  penny. 

I  have  a  theory  that  many  of  the  Fleet 
Street  loafers  are  decayed  Pall  Mall  and 
club  loafers.  When  their  clothes  were 
good  enough  they  loafed  in  Pall  Mall,  on 
the  chance  of  catching  a  friend  leaving  a 
club  and  "  tapping "  him  for  a  sovereign  or 
so.  One  of  the  briskest  and  most  success- 
ful of  the  Pall  Mall  "  tappers "  I  ever  knew 
would  proceed  by  a  sort  of  breathless  strata- 
gem. He  would  rush  on  his  victim  eagerly, 
as  though  pressed  for  every  moment  of  time, 
feeling  the  while  in  his  (own)  waistcoat 
pocket.      "  My  dear  chap,  have  you  change 


THE    CAB-STAND    LOAFER. 


36o 


LIVING    LONDON. 


for  a  sovereign  about  you  ? "  Probab!)'  the 
victim  hadn't.  "  Dear,  dear,  what  a  pity  ! 
(and  he  really  was  sorry,  as  you  will  soon 
see).  Come,  lend  me  five  shillings  then, 
quick  !  " — perhaps  with  some  hazy  reference 
to  a  cabman  waiting  round  the  corner.  The 
victim,  thus  taken  with  a  rush,  would  weakly 
produce  the  coins,  which  the  "  tapper  "  would 
instantly  seize,  with  hasty  thanks,  and  vanish. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  the  change  were  forth- 
coming, it  was  better  business  still.  "  Thanks, 
awfully — eighteen,  twenty — quite  right.     Why 


are  often  very  impressive  with  green  young 
journalists,  who  regard  them  as  veterans  of 
the  profession,  and  are  "  tapped  "  with  great 
freedom  ;  and  their  complexions  are  the 
product  of  external  dirt  and  internal  Scotch 
whisk)'. 

The  Fleet  Street  loafer  is  often  observed  to 
merge  into  the  sporting  loafer.  There  are 
many  about  the  neighbourhood  who  are,  or 
who  call  themselves,  bookmakers'  runners ; 
though  they  are  rarely  observed  to  run. 
And   there  are  many  who  are  Fleet  Street 


thp:  markf:t  loafer. 


where — what — where  did  I  put — oh,  there,  I'll 
give  you  the  sovereign  to-morrow !  "  And 
the  "  tapper "  would  be  gone  round  the 
corner  in  a  flash,  leaving  the  "  tappee  "  stand- 
ing staring  and  helpless  on  the  pavement. 

This  sort  of  thing  cannot  endure  for  long, 
and  the  growing  seediness  of  hat  and  coat 
makes  operations  in  Pall  Mall  increasingly 
■difficult.  Club  porters  get  uncivil,  too,  and 
victims  grow  warier.  So  the  loafer  declines 
on  Fleet  Street,  and  smaller  "  taps."  But 
of  course  there  are  Fleet  Street  loafers 
who  have  never  loafed  anywhere  else.  Some 
came  years  ago  to  take  the  profession  of 
journalism  by  storm,  but  have  not  begun 
storming,   or   even   journalising,  yet.     These 


loafers  by  locality,  but  sporting  loafers  by 
predilection.  Not  that  they  are  expert 
in  any  sport,  unless  the  "  tapping "  and 
"  prossing "  already  mentioned  be  called 
sports.  But  they  frequent  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  sporting  papers,  and  are  learned 
in  spring  handicaps.  They  do  not  wear  tall 
hats,  old  or  new,  and  their  clothing  is  apt 
to  be  tighter  about  the  legs  than  common, 
and  to  show  signs  of  original  loud  tints. 

The  sporting  loafer  is  by  no  means  con- 
fined to  Fleet  Street,  and  he  is  often  identical 
with  the  cab-stand  loafer.  The  cab-stand 
loafer  is  a  dingy  and  decayed  imitation  of 
the  cabmen  upon  whom,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
he  lives.     He  is  like  most  loafers,  a  parasite 


LOAFING    LONDON. 


361 


upon  a  trade  practised  by  more  industrious 
persons,  some  part  of  whose  earnings  he 
seems  to  absorb  by  an  occult  process  pre- 
sumably akin  to  what  men  of  science  call 
"  endosmosis."  His  counterpart  is  to  be  seen 
at  the  great  markets,  where  the  loafer  takes 
the  external  appearance  of  the  most  dila- 
pidated of  market  porters ;  being  careful, 
however,  never  to  push  the 
resemblance  to  the  extreme  of 
lifting  anything  heavier  than 
a  quart  pot  At  Billingsgate 
he  may  gather  sufficient  energy 
to  fill  a  paper  bag  with  shells, 
topped  with  a  stale  refuse 
oyster  or  two,  and  either  try 
to  sell  you  the  parcel  of 
"  oysters "  cheap,  or  press  it 
on  you  as  a  gift,  in  return  for 
which  he  is  ready  to  accept 
the  price  of  a  drink,  as  he 
takes  care  you  shall  under- 
stand. But  such  an  exhibition 
of  energy  and  enterprise  is 
unusual,  and  for  the  most  part 
the  market  loafer,  like  the  rest, 
is  content  to  merely  loaf. 

Comparatively  with  the 
market  loafer  the  railway- 
station  loafer  is  rare,  thouefh 
of  course  he  exists.  He  is 
rare  perhaps  because  the  bustle 
of  a  great  railway  station  dis- 
agrees with  his  contemplative 
nature:  perhaps  (and  more 
likely)  because  passengers  do 
not  remain  long  enough  for 
an  acquaintance  to  be  ripened 
to  "  tapping  "  point :  and  per- 
haps (more  likely  still)  because 
unsympathetic  officials,  un- 
worthily misconstruing  the  ardour  of  his 
gaze  on  piles  of  luggage,  move  him  on. 
Such  as  he  is,  he  has  no  distinctive  features. 
I  remember  one  who  loafed  for  years  at  a 
large  terminus,  hanging  about  under  the 
great  clock,  and  now  and  again  walking 
over  to  watch  the  passengers  leave  a  train. 
He  spoke  to  nobody,  did  not  drink  or  smoke, 
and,  since  he  was  tolerated,  presumably  he 
did  not  steal.  So  that  I  wondered  how  he 
made  his  loafing  pay.  But  at  length  I 
learned  that  the  poor  fellow  was  weak  in 
46 


the  head,  and  was  merely  waiting  for  his 
little  son — who  had  been  killed  by  falling  out 
of  a  railway  carriage  on  that  line,  four  years 
before,  on  his  way  home  from  a  holiday. 

The  most  industrious  loafer  I  have  ever 
met  is  the  chess  loafer.  To  speak  of  an 
industrious  loafer  is  to  use  a  contradiction  in 
terms,  and  it  seems,  moreover,  something  of 


THE    DENUNCIATORY    LOAFER. 

an  injustice  to  call  an  ardent  chess-player 
a  loafer.  But  it  is  a  fact  that  there  are  a 
number  of  men  in  London  reduced  to 
something  much  like  a  loafing  life  by  their 
devotion  to  the  game  of  chess.  They  are 
honest  men,  and  no  cadgers  ;  but  while  they 
are  not  playing  they  are  loafing,  and  the 
game  seems  to  have  on  them  the  extra- 
ordinary effect  of  unfitting  them  for  any 
other  pursuit.  I  could  name  once-prosperous 
tradesmen  who  have  let  their  businesses  go  to 
ruin   while    they  played,  and  who  now  loaf, 


362 


LIVING    LONDON. 


keen  as  ever ;  and  there  are  other  men  who 
never  have  been  prosperous,  and  never  will, 
for  the  same  reason.  One  cannot  refuse 
sympathy  to  so  disinterested  an  enthusiasm, 
much  as  one  may  deplore  its  results. 

The  laziest  loafer  of  all  is  undoubtedly  the 
park  loafer  ;  he  will  not  even  stand  up  to 
loaf.  Indeed  he  will  not  often  even  sit.  He 
lies  on  the  grass  and  sleeps,  embellishing 
the  best  of  the  London  parks  with  a  sprinkle 
of  foul  and  snoring  humanity,  in  every 
variety  of  rag  and  tatter,  and  scaring  away  the 
little  children 
who  would  like 
to  play  there. 
To  the  ordinary 
intelligence  it 
would  seem  that 
nobody — except 
Nebuchad- 
nezzar  —  could 
extract  a  living 
from  loafing  of 
this  sort.  But 
the  park  loafer 
certainly  eats, 
and  his  food  is 
not  grass  ;  for 
he  brings  it  in 
a  greasy  paper, 
and  casts  the 
greasy  paper 
abroad  to  aid 
further  in  the 
adornment  of 
his       particular 

garden.  I  think  he  must  be — in  many  cases, 
at  any  rate — the  "  unemployed  "  loafer  whom 
at  Tower  Hill.  Not  that 
the  Tower  Hill  meetings 
course  ;  but  certain  bene- 
volent people  sometimes  sent  .shillings  for 
distribution,  and  they  were  mostly  the  loafers 
who  got  those  shillings.  I  remember  one 
making  a  dolorous  and  pathetic  speech  in 
which  he  assured  the  crowd  that  he  had 
been  out  of  work  for  twenty-eight  years  ; 
and,  as  he  seemed  of  such  an  age  as  possibly 
to  have  been  released  from  school  somewhere 
about  twenty-eight  years  before,  the  state- 
ment appeared  quite  credible. 

Although  the  demonstrations  are  over,  the 
loafer   who   gains   a  peaceful    living   by   the 


we  used  to  see 
all  the  men  at 
were  loafers,   of 


simple  expedient  of  being  out  of  work  is  still 
common  enough  in  the  East-End  and  in 
other  busy  parts  of  town.  He  does  pretty 
well,  too,  in  the  midst  of  a  hard-working 
population  ready  to  sympathise  with  a  man 
who  can  find  no  market  for  his  labour. 

There  is  a  sort  of  denunciatory  loafer  wha 
frequents  public  places  wearing  a  dingy  red 
tie,  making  speeches  and  passing  round 
a  hat.  He  is  in  some  sort  allied  with  the 
out-of-work  loafer,  but  he  is  a  trifle  more 
active,  and  by  so  much  the  greater  nuisance. 

He  collects 
pennies  for  loud 
denunciations,^ 
and  h  e  d  e  - 
nounces  what- 
ever he  judges 
the  best  "draw": 
the  Govern  ment,. 
the  "  privileged 
classes,"  the- 
police,  the  drink 
traffic,  the 
t  e  etotallers — 
anything  or  any- 
body. He  is  a, 
noisy  half- 
brother  to- 
another  red-tied 
loafer,  who- 
makes  no  public 
speeches,  but 
"taps"  and 
"  prosses  "  on 
democratic  prin- 
ciples ;  being  impelled  by  his  devotion  to 
humanity  to  reduce  the  general  average  of 
degrading  toil  by  abstaining  from  it  entirely, 
and  being  deterred  by  no  false  pride  from 
bartering  his  sympathy  with  the  downtrodden 
for  as  many  drinks  and  small  loans  as  the 
downtrodden  may  be  induced  to  yield. 

The  list  might  be  extended  ;  notably  in 
the  direction  of  the  trade  loafers,  for  there 
few  trades  unattended  by  some  sort  of 
There  is  even  the  boy  loafer, 
in  his  varied  degrees,  "  training  on  "  as  the 
sportsmen  say,  into  a  grown  loafer  as  useless 
and  unornamental  as  the  rest ;  but  as  we  go 
the  examination  grows  monotonous,  and  the 
classes  tend  to  mingle  in  the  floating  mass  of 
general  Loaferdom. 


THE    RAILWAY-STATION    LOAFER. 


are 

loafing  retinue. 


363 


OXFORD   STREET. 


REPRESENTATIVE    LONDON    STREETS. 

By  EDWIN  PUGH. 


TIME  passes  over  many  of  the  world's 
great  towns  and  seems  to  leave  no 
trace  behind,  but  London  has  always 
been  in  a  state  of  transition  :  ever  growing 
and  ever  changing,  it  is,  in  a  sense,  no 
abiding  city.  Streets  that  a  century  ago 
were  sacred  to  chaffering  hucksters  and  small 
tradesmen  are  now  the  humming  centres  of 
a  world's  commerce  ;  districts  that  were  once 
the  favoured  quarters  of  our  aristocracy  are 
given  over  to  a  cosmopolitan  mob  of  alien 
immigrants.  Yet  in  this  seemingly  chaotic 
huddle  of  houses  there  is  a  certain  plan 
and  purpose  that  has  grown  inevitably  out 
of  the  needs  of  a  swarming  population. 

"  The  East-End  "  and  "  the  West-End  " 
are  phrases  indicative  of  more  than  mere 
locality.  When  we  talk  of  "  the  City "  we 
do  not  always  mean,  strictly,  the  entire  area 
of  London  over  which  the  Lord  Mayor  rules. 
We  have  come  to  apply  these  terms  to 
communities.  "  The  West-End  "  could  by 
no  stretch  of  imagination  be  said  to  include 


Ealing,  though  logically  that  is  the  truer 
west  end  of  London.  The  City  proper 
contains  within  its  borders  streets  utterly 
commonplace  and  even  squalid  ;  but  they 
have  no  place  in  the  mental  picture  that 
those  words  "  the  City  "  conjure  up.  London 
is,  in  short,  not  to  be  rightly  understood  by 
a  study  of  particular  neighbourhoods,  but 
by  the  study  of  such  of  her  streets  as  can  be 
said  to  be  truly  representative  of  any  one 
distinct  phase  of  her  daily  life. 

And  if  I  were  pinned  down  to  the  selection 
of  one  such  street  I  think  I  should  choose 
O.xford  Street,  only  stipulating  that  I  be 
allowed  to  add  to  the  stretch  of  thoroughfare 
bearing  that  name  its  miles  of  continuation, 
east  and  west.  This  would  give  me  a  road 
bisecting  London  from  Hanwell  to  Barking 
almost  straight  and  clear  save  for  a  little 
kink  or  two  where  it  strikes  the  City.  There 
is  no  other  road  which  leads  directly  through 
London  as  this  does,  or  reveals  so  many  of 
its  diverse  aspects.     A  journey  from  end  to 


PICCADILLY. 


NEW   CUT,    LAMBETH. 


REPRESENTATIVE  LONDON  STREETS. 


365 


end  of  it  would  teach  the  average  Cockney 
more  about  his  native  home  than  years  of 
residence  in  one  circumscribed  neighbour- 
hood. 

It  attains  its  fullest  expression  at  Oxford 
Circus.  Here  it  is  part  fashionable,  part 
commercial.  The  bold  sweep  of  Regent 
Street  curves  southward,  cleaving  a  way 
between  the  muddle  of  nondescript  byways 
that  culminate  in  Soho  and  the  stately  streets 
and  spacious  squares  lying  on  either  side  of 
Bond  Street  as  far  as  Park  Lane  in  one 
direction  and  Piccadilly  in  another.  There 
is  little  that  is  impressive  in  the  aspect  of 
Oxford  Street  itself  at  this  point,  however ; 
the  buildings  on  either  side  form  a  higgledy- 
piggledy  of  mean,  bare  houses,  edifices 
frankly  utilitarian,  and  ambitious  structures 
that  fail  of  dignity  for  lack  of  congruous 
surroundings.  It  is  its  traffic,  human  and 
vehicular,  that  redeems  Oxford  Street  from 
the  commonplace.  All  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  and  women,  from  the  tatterdemalion 
newsboy,  hoarse  and  dirty,  to  the  opulent 
society  dame  in  her  furs  and  silks,  beside 
her  shrivelled  lord,  meet  and  mingle  here ; 
and  every  kind  of  conveyance  from  a  donkey- 
shallow  bound  for  Covent  Garden  to  a 
four-in-hand    off  to  the  races. 

To  no  other  spot  in  London  does  this 
description  apply  with  the  same  exactness. 
Piccadilly  Circus  has  its  peculiar  character- 
istics to  be  found  nowhere  else ;  and  so 
has  that  confluence  of  thoroughfares  at  the 
Mansion  House.  Even  Charing  Cross  draws 
a  special  leaven  from  the  Strand,  Pall  Mall, 
Northumberland  Avenue,  the  recruiting 
ground  opposite  St.  Martin's  Church,  and 
the  National  Gallery.  Oxford  Street  alone 
relies  on  no  e.xtraneous  aid  of  striking 
effects  for  its  distinctiveness.  It  is  repre- 
sentative of  average  London  ;  it  has  a 
solid,  middle-class  look  about  it ;  its  pave- 
ments are  thronged  with  the  normal  types 
of  Cockney.  It  is  London  crystallised  at 
its  most  obvious.  Outre'  London  must  be 
sought  elsewhere.  It  may  be  found  in 
another  street,  primarily  a  mart  as  O.xford 
Street  is,  some  miles  away  in  the  White- 
chapel  district. 

This  is  Wentworth  Street  —  a  street  of 
ugly,  featureless  houses,  all  built  alike.  Each 
ground   floor   is    a   shop,    and   the   kerb   on 


either  side  of  the  road  is  cumbered  with 
stalls.  As  you  worm  your  way  through  the 
press  of  people  it  is  easy  to  imagine  that 
you  are  in  a  foreign  city.  On  every  side  are 
un-English  faces,  un-English  wares,  un- 
English  writings  on  the  walls.  The  accents 
of  an  unknown  tongue  assail  your  ears. 
Your  companions  are  mostly  women,  Jewes.ses, 
the  majority  wearing  the  black  wigs  of 
the  matron  over  their  own  scanty  locks. 
There  are  blowsy  and  haggard  mothers  of 
clinging  families  ;  and  full-blooded  girls  with 
dark  eyes,  languorously  bold,  ripe  red  lips, 
and  ebon  tresses.  The  men  are  of  two 
kinds,  the  frowsy  and  the  flash.  Eish  and 
poultry  are  the  articles  of  commerce  in  which 
trade  is  most  brisk.  At  every  step  you  come 
upon  a  woman  carrying  a  fluttering  fowl  or 
two,  or  a  slab  of  fish  in  a  basket  with  kosher 
herbs.  There  is  bountiful  good-humour  and 
good-nature,  too,  or  the  beggars  would  not 
be  so  numerous.  This  is  on  week-days.  On 
Sundays  Wentworth  Street  is  overshadowed 
by  its  more  famous  neighbour,  Middlesex 
Street,  popularly  known  as  "  Petticoat  Lane," 
then  a  seething  mass  of  chafferers,  but  on 
other  days  ordinary  enough. 

Another  mart  of  a  different  sort,  such  a 
one  as  is  to  be  found,  but  on  a  smaller  scale, 
in  any  poor  district  of  London,  is  the  New 
Cut,  Lambeth.  Here  the  stalls  are  restricted 
to  one  side  of  the  roadway.  Jews  are  here 
too,  but  not  preponderating.  The  goods 
exposed  for  sale  are  of  every  conceivable 
kind — there  is  no  end  to  their  variety  ;  but 
they  are,  generally  speaking,  of  a  poor  quality, 
shoddy  or  tawdry  or  pinchbeck.  If  a  bad 
thing  is  ever  cheap  they  touch  the  nadir  of 
cheapness,  however.  Perhaps  the  most  strik- 
ing feature  of  the  street  is  the  placarding 
of  the  shops.  Nearly  every  window  is  criss- 
crossed with  slips  of  paper ;  nearly  every 
article  seems  to  have  been  expo.sed  to  a  hail 
of  tickets.  At  night  the  "  Cut  "  shines  forth 
murkily  resplendent  under  the  smoky  glare 
of  countless  naphtha  lamps.  The  eddying 
crowds  go  back  and  forth,  and  the  costers 
bawl,  and  the  quacks  harangue,  until  voices 
and  wares  and  customers  are  alike  exhausted. 

Yet  another  mart.  It  lies  between  St 
Paul's  Cathedral  and  Fenchurch  Street,  and 
comprises  Cheapside,  Poultry,  Cornhill,  Lom- 
bard   Street,    Threadneedle    Street,   Throg- 


366 


LIVING    LONDON. 


COKNHILL  (FROM  FRONT  OF 
THF,  ROVAL  EXCHANGE). 


morton  Street,  and  scores  of  other  byways 
intersecting  these.  Here  there  is  no  vulgar 
bellowing  of  hawkers.  There  are  shops  in 
plenty  and  itinerant  pedlars  of  penny  trifles 
in  the  gutters  ;  but  these  have  no  part  in 
the  mart.  It  is  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Royal  Exchange,  in  small  offices  high  up 
or  far  back  in  lofty  tiers  of  flats,  in  counting- 
hou.ses  concealed  behind  the  mahogany  and 
plate  glass  of  pompous  outer  offices,  that 
the  trafficking  is  done.  Outward  and  visible 
sign  of  all  this  stress  of  business  is  patent 
in  the  towering  warehouses  of  Queen  Victoria 
Street  and  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  the 
never-ending  procession  of  carts  and  waggons 
that  lumber  up  and  down.  Seething  black- 
hatted,  black-coated  hordes  jostle  one  another 
on  the  pavements  to  an  unending  stir  and 
uproar  of  slithering  feet  and  rolling  wheels. 
There  is  an  atmosphere  of  feverish  pre- 
occupation everywhere  prevailing.  Cheap- 
side  is  all  too  narrow  to  contain  the  press  of 
vehicles  and  men  that  pours  into  it  the 
whole  day  long.  The  wires  that  score  the 
sky  in  a  very  catscradle  are  all  too  few 
for  the  impatience  of  these  dealers  in  untold 
millions  ;  the  hours  too  short  to  permit  them 
even  to  be  healthy  in  their  habits  of  eating 
and  drinking. 

At   the    Mansion    House   the   conclave  of 
moving   things    and    myriad    noises   reaches 


a  climax  and  forthwith  declines.  In  the 
several  streets  that  suck  up  the  City's  output 
and  scatter  it  eastward  there  is  comparative 
peace.  The  rigours  of  the  game  abate ; 
there  is  even  a  frivolous  market-place  where 
live  things  may  be  bought,  and  a  Monument 
to  amuse  the  simple-minded.  Beyond  the 
Monument  the  river  flovvs  behind  the 
turbulence  of  Lower  Thames  Street,  riotous 
with  unclean  odours,  darkened  by  tall  ware- 
houses, cranes  dangling  ponderous  burdens 
overhead  precariously.  This  wealth  of  wharves 
and  shipping  is  symbolised  by  the  solid  bank 
buildings  in  the  narrow  congeries  of  streets 
about  Cornhill,  where  a  chinking  of  gold  and 
crisping  of  notes  go  on  from  ten  to  four  in 
a  subdued  atmosphere  of  ordered  calm. 
These  are  the  streets  of  finance  that  feed 
the  streets  of  fashion  :  Piccadilly  and  Bond 
Street  with  their  shops  that  .seem  only  to 
condescend  to  be  shops,  but  take  a  very  real 
revenge  for  their  humiliation,  notwithstanding, 
out  of  the  elegant  idlers  who  patronise  them. 
Bond  Street  owes  its  good  fortune  to  an 
accident  of  birth  :  it  is  a  street  of  such  high 
repute  that  it  scorns  all  ostentation.  It  is 
rather  narrow  and  warped.  Its  houses  have 
neither  form  nor  comeliness,  as  a  rule.  But  its 
neighbour,  Piccadilly,  only  just  mis.ses  mag- 
nificence. On  its  northern  side  it  is  worthy 
of  its  world-wide  reputation  ;    the    buildings 


REPRESENTATIVE  LONDON  STREETS. 


are,  for  the  most  part,  solid  and  responsible- 
looking  ;  the  Royal  Academy  strikes  a  firm, 
austere  note.  On  the  southern  side  it  is 
marred  by  some  tasteless  ornamentation  that 
looms  forth  ludicrously  beside  the  handsome 
frontages  of  some  great  hotels  and  galleries. 
St.  James's  Street,  however,  presents  a  goodly 
side  view,  terminating  in  a  peep  of  the 
dark,  mediaival-looking  St.  James's  Palace. 
And,  yet  a  little  way  ahead,  bordering 
the  hill,  the  pleasant  boscage  of  the  Green 
Park  throws  a  welcome  shade  on  the  raised 
side-walk. 

But  Piccadilly  only  prepares  us  for  the 
true  splendours  of  the  West-End.  At  Hyde 
Park  Corner  Park  Lane  makes  a  paltry  exit. 
To  realise  the  beauty  of  Park  Lane  it  is 
necessary  to  turn  into  it  from  the  Park. 
Emerging  from  Stanhope  Gate  you  confront 
an  imposing  mass  of  monumental  masonry 
that  is  only  excelled  by  the  show  of  the 
great  hotels  in  Northumberland  Avenue. 
There  is  no  prevailing  scheme  of  architec- 
ture; each  mansion  preserves  an  individuality; 
but  the  general  effect  makes  for  a  grandeur 
that  is  tenderly  tempered  by  the  bright 
greenness  of  the  Park  itself  This  is 
Millionairedom  ;  but  a  few  bijou  residences 
are  sandwiched  in  between  the  palaces  for 
the  delight  of  those  mice  in   the    temple  of 


367 


Mammon  who,  though  comparatively  poor, 
are  superlatively  select.  It  is  all  rather 
overbearing,  perhaps  ;  and  not  to  be  com- 
pared for  an  instant  with  the  noble  vistas 
of  Kensington.  There,  London  is  at  its  best 
and  bravest  and  most  beautiful. 

The  ample  main  road   winds  gently  along 
through  a  verdant  avenue  of  trees,  limitless 
on  the  northern  side  ;  on  the  south  chequered 
by    grey   courts    of  stately    houses.     Just    at 
the    beginning   of  Kensington     High    Street 
there    is    an    ugly    wry   twist   and    a    brief 
sordidness  of  shops  and  unlovely  houses  ;  but 
thereafter  the  road    flows    wide    and  smooth 
once  more,   ever  opening  up  new  wondrous 
prospects  of  mingled  houses  and  trees.    Here- 
about   is    the   abode    of  fashion    and    rank  ; 
life  moves  with  a  luxurious  leisureliness.     In 
the  streets   there  is   evidence  of  a    polished, 
cushioned  state  of  being  in   the  sumptuous' 
equipages  bowling  swiftly  along,  in  the  tone 
of  courtliness  of  which  we  catch  a  casual  echo 
now    and      again,     and     the    nicely-ordered 
etiquette   that  allots  two  men  and  a  boy  to 
one  man's  work.     At  night  the  windows  are 
softly   aglow ;    beauty  regally  adorned    trips 


CHEAPSIDE    (FROM   THE    MANSION    HOUSE). 


368 


LIVING    LONDON. 


from  kerb  to  doorway  on  an  aristocratic  arm  ; 
the  air  is  subtly  murmurous  with  music 

A  far  cry  from  here  to  the  Borough  High 
Street,  where  from  numberless  obscure  by- 
ways a  teeming  people  congregate  in  a 
raucous  glare  of  shop-lights.  Day  in  this 
neighbourhood  discloses  everywhere,  trickling 
into  the  main  road,  a  very  plague  of  squalid 
alleys,  eloquent  of  poverty  most  abject.  The 
High  Street  itself  is  lively  and  exhilarating  ; 
St.  George's  Church,  standing  out  boldly  at 


monotony  of  the  ravelled  skein  of  roofs. 
The  area  these  districts  cover  is  immense, 
yet  every  house  is  congested  with  tenants. 
You  may  pass  through  slum  after  slum,  and 
find  them  all  essentially  alike  :  narrow  lanes, 
unevenly  paved,  between  high,  barren  tene- 
ments, with  parallelograms  of  door  and  win- 
dow accenting  their  dreary  uniformity  of 
construction.  The  dwellers  are,  for  the  most 
part,  stunted,  deformed,  sickly,  without  a 
thought  beyond  the  satisfaction  of  the  day's 


HIGH    STREET,    KENSINGTON. 


its  southern  end  amid  low-growing  trees, 
lends  a  touch  of  grace  to  the  scene.  Such 
roads  as  this  you  will  find  traversing  a  score 
of  similar  districts  round  about — in  Walworth, 
Bermondsey,  and  over  the  water,  from  Whitc- 
chapcl  to  Silvertown.  They  are  like  mighty 
rivers  in  a  wilderness  of  misery  and  want. 
The  horrid  streets  lie  cheek  by  jowl  in  serried 
rows  between  them,  dark,  dirty,  forbidding, 
differing  from  one  another  in  no  particular 
save  the  depth  of  their  degradation.  There 
are  gaps  in  the  universal  drabness  ;  here  and 
there  church  spires  point  the  way  'c.>  Heaven ; 
theatres,  music  halls,  and  halls  of  science, 
institutes,  libraries,  and  hospitals  for  the 
healing  of  mind  and  body,  break  the  deadly 


needs.  In  these  regions  of  famine  hunger 
is  a  common  bed-fellow  ;  pain  and  weariness 
and  cold  the  companions  of  every  hour. 
The  people  work  joylessly,  talk  witlessly, 
play  stupidly,  employing  earnestness  only 
when  they  bicker  or  fight  or  sin. 

How  different  these  grim  realities  from  the 
mimic  life  of  the  Strand  !  Here  are  the 
haunts  of  the  mummer  and  the  garish  tem- 
ples in  which  he  struts  his  hour ;  here 
are  such  contrasted  edifices  as  Exeter  Hall, 
scene  of  religious  congresses  ;  Charing 
Cross  Station,  key  of  the  Continent,  a 
world's  centre  to  which  all  nations  gravi- 
tate ;  the  frivolous  Tivoli,  and  sombre 
Somerset  House  frowning  on  the  academic 


REPRESENTATIVE  LONDON  STREETS. 


369 


calm  of  King's  College.  Coutts's,  oldest  of 
old-fashioned  banks,  lies  within  hail  of  the 
Cecil,  one  of  the  newest  of  new-fashioned 
hotels.  St.  Mary-le-Strand  Church  domin- 
ates the  purview,  a  haven  of  rest,  shadowing 
that  bitter  battle-ground  of  ignoble  passions, 
the  cloistral-looking  Law  Courts.  And  this 
jumble  of  contrasts  is  reproduced  in  the 
wayfarers  who  haunt  its  classic  precincts. 
Every  grade  and  every  order  of  society  are 
represented.  The  humdrum  types  to  be  met 
with  in  Oxford  Street — that  are  so  truly 
representative  because  they  are  so  humdrum — 


It  is  large  enough  to  tolerate  even  Bohemia. 
But  the  permanent  home  of  Bohemianism  is 
far  away :  in  Brixton,  where  music  hall 
artistes  congregate ;  in  Avenue  Road,  St. 
John's  Wood,  and  Holland  Park,  favoured 
of  painters  and  histrions  ;  at  Hampstead,  and 
in  strange  odd  nooks  and  crannies  every- 
where. Perhaps  the  most  typical  Bohemian 
colony,  however,  exists  in  Bedford  Park,  ^ 
suburb  of  dainty,  rococo  villas,  set  prettily 
among  trees.  But  there  is  no  one  district  of 
London  corresponding  to  the  Latin  Quarter 
of  Paris.     The  average  Cockney  is   a   hard- 


THE    STKAND. 


are  supplemented  here  by  notable  additions. 
The  noble  and  the  famous  ;  the  rich  and  the 
wise;  the  successful  and  the  submerged,  all 
flock  to  this  place.  Peaces  that  you  have 
never  seen  before  you  recognise  instantly 
and  tack  a  famous  name  to.  Other  faces, 
bearing  signs  of  kinship  with  these  great 
one:;,  flit  slinkingly  by,  the  nobleness  struck 
out  of  them  by  failure  and  disappointment. 
Art  and  the  camp-followers  of  art,  science 
and  the  drama,  sport,  and  religion  and  law 
have  their  emissaries  here.  The  Strand  is 
a  blend  of  such  seemingly  irreconcilable 
elements  that  it  might  almost  be  said  to 
epitomise  the  national  character  of  the 
English.  It  is  serenely  tolerant  of  all  things 
and  of  all  men. 
47 


headed,  practical  person  of  an  unromantic 
turn  of  mind,  who  gets  what  he  can  out  of 
life  as  cheaply  as  possible  and  does  not 
bother  about  his  environment  so  long  as  he  is 
comfortable. 

Suburbia  is  his  ideal  dwelling-place  :  that 
belt  of  Villadom  which  engirdles  London, 
and  is  essentially  the  same  at  Peckham 
as  at  Hornsey.  But  Suburbia  is  not  all 
villas.  In  every  district  it  is  dominated 
by  great,  wide  thoroughfares,  closely  resem- 
bling one  another,  arteries  of  traffic,  alive 
with  crowds  from  morn  to  midnight,  and 
eternally  thunderous  with  a  roar  of  business. 
These  streets — of  which  Holloway  Road  is  a 
typical  example — are  formed  of  the  strangest 
jumble    of   buildings    imaginp.ble.     Monster 


370 


LIVING    LONDON, 


emporiums,  ablaze  with  light,  break  the  crazy 
roof-line  of  a  row  of  hovels ;  the  cat's-meat 
shop  and  the  palatial  premises  of  a  limited 
liability  company's  enterprise  stand  side  by 
side  ;  the  latest  thing  in  music-halls  and  the 
penny  gaff  confront  one  another,  rivals  for 
the  same  public  favour.  Such  streets  often  ex- 
tend for  miles  under  various  aliases  ;  at  night 
they  are  brilliant  with  a  pearly  radiance 
of  electricity.  The  Hooligan  and  the  pro- 
fessional City  man,  the  artisan  and  the  clerk, 
promenade  the  broad  pavements,  taking  the 
air.  Young  men  and  maidens,  their  day's 
work  done,  meet  for  mingled  purposes  of 
flirtation  and  horse-play.  Running  out  of 
the  road  on  either  hand  are  quiet,  staid 
streets,  impeccably  residential,  each  with  its 
garden-patch,  back  and  front.  There  are 
other  streets  that  have  come  down  in  the 
world,   but   these    are   outside    the    pale   of 


recognition :    they    belong   properly   to   that 
nebulous  territory,  "  the  East-End." 

London  contains  many  more  streets  that 
might  loosely  be  dubbed  "  representative," 
but  in  reality  they  reveal  only  bizarre 
aspects  of  the  life  of  the  great  City  :  Wardour 
Street,  for  instance,  the  immemorial  resort  of 
old  curiosity-mongers,  tortuous  and  frowsy 
and  prematurely  aged — a  very  miser  among 
streets,  with  its  vast  wealth  of  hidden  treasure, 
costly  and  rare.  Saffron  Hill,  again,  the 
Italian  quarter,  redolent  of  garlic  and  pic- 
turesquely filthy  ;  and  the  streets  of  the 
Soho  cosmopolitan  quarter,  compact  of  beetle- 
browed,  dingy  dwellings,  home  of  political 
refugees,  blacklegs,  cheap  restaurateurs,  and 
French  laundresses  :  these  and  others.  But, 
since  they  are  unique  rather  than  representa- 
tive, they  hardly  fall  within  the  scope  of 
this  chapter. 


HOLLOWAY   ROAD. 


371 


MARIE   HILTON   CRECHE  :    THE   COTS. 


CARING    FOR    LONDON'S    CHILDREN. 

By  D.  L   WOOLMER. 


GODMOTHER  London  may  be  grave 
with  experience,  but  she  shows  no  sign 
of  senile  decay.  Indeed,  as  her  foster 
brood  increases  so  she  renews  her  youth,  and 
as  time  brings  her  foster  grandchildren  and 
great-grandchildren  she  rises  to  the  responsi- 
bilities, and  conceives  fresh  and  grand 
schemes  for  their  use  and  benefit.  Long 
before  a  call  to  the  great  and  valiant  nations 
of  the  earth  to  "  take  up  the  white  man's 
burden  "  stirred  up  a 
spirit  that  developed 
in  various  enterprises, 
the    heart    of  '  Great 


Britain  throbbed  with  the  discovery  that 
a  burden  lay  very  near  home.  Like  the 
giant  Christopher,  personified  Benevolence 
responded  to  the  voice  of  a  little  child 
whose  only  language  was  a  cry  in  the 
darkness,  and  bent  his  shoulder  to  the  task. 
What  though  the  unexpected  weight  made 
him  stagger,  he  would  hold  the  small 
traveller  aloft  above  the  swirling  stream  or 
perish  in  the  attempt.  St.  Christopher, 
struggling  along  in  the  centre  of  the  current, 
making  his  last  and  best  journey,  might 
represent  one  aspect  of  London  of  to-day. 
The  end  of  the  story  has  yet  to  be  written  ; 
the  concluding  chapters  may  or 
may  not  find  their  place  in  the 
library  of  posterity. 

Numerous  portraits  of  a  St. 
Christopher  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  various  scenes  in  his 
life,  form  part  of  a  collection  of 
prints  and  pictures  in  the  Found- 
ling Hospital.  A  gentleman  from 
wig  to  shoe  -  buckles,  in  the 
costume  of  an  English  sailor  of 
HILTON  the  period,  is  considering  the  ap- 

MEAL  TIME,    parition   of  an   infant  lying  in  a 


372 


LIVING    LONDON. 


basket  at  his  feet.  His  poised  walking-stick 
helps  to  indicate  an  air  of  general  perplexity. 
Perhaps  he  shares  the  sentiments  of  the  im- 
mortal Samuel  Weller  when  he  felt  that 
"somebody  ought  to  be  whopped,  only  he 
did  not  exactly  know  whom."  That  baby 
is  not  the  somebody,  so,  no  one  else  being 
in  evidence  to  suffer  vicarious  punishment, 
the  stick  is  transformed  into  a  shepherd's 
crook,  and  the  child  is  conveyed  to  a  place 
of  safety. 

A  small  guide,  in  the  antique  costume 
of  dark  brown  jacket  and  trousers  and 
scarlet  waistcoat,  engaged  in  conducting  a 
visitor  through  the  institution,  readily 
lectures  on  the  picture,  and  explains  its 
meaning.  That  is  Captain  Thomas  Coram, 
who  picked  up  more  than  one  little  outcast, 
and  determined  to  find  a  home  for  them  and 
for  other  deserted  infants  in  London. 

A  fragment  of  the  eighteenth  century 
has  been  well  preserved  within  the  gates 
of  a  green  enclosure  opening  on  Guilford 
Street.  A  constant  stream  of  young  life 
saves  the  venerable  institution  from  decay. 
Childhood  is  always  being  born,  and  is  al- 
ways— sad  to  say — liable  to  desertion.  The 
550  children  under  the  care  of  the  authorities 
of  the  Foundling  Hospital  have  all  been 
forsaken  by  their  fathers,  and  the  burden 
of  their  maintenance  has  been  undertaken 
by  the  governors  in  the  hope  of  giving  both 
the  mothers  and  their  firstborn  a  chance  of 
supporting  themselves  worthily. 

The  light-hearted  children  playing  in  front 
of  the  only  home  that  they  have  ever  known 
show  no  consciousness  of  any  burdens  at  all. 
The  large  family  extends  beyond  the  gates. 
Those  who  go  out  into  the  world  still  remain 
the  institution's  adopted  children  ;  while  its 
infants  are  sent  into  the  country,  where  they 
spend  the  first  four  or  five  years  of  their 
lives.  Fresh  air  is  a  favourite  gift  of  modern 
benevolence  to  London's  potential  citizens 
of  to-morrow. 

It  is  difiScult  to  realise  that  in  the  great 
city  a  baby  starts  on  its  life  march  every 
five  minutes.  Thousands  of  little  feet, 
destined  to  ache  and  bleed  beneath  their 
load,  are  bound  to  remain  in  the  desert  of 
bricks  and  mortar.  Bands  of  love  even  more 
unyielding  than  rough  apron-strings  tie  them 
to  hardworking  mothers,  who  for  the  sake  of 


these  atoms  of  humanity  will  keep  a  hold  of 
life,  hope,  and  respectability.  To  meet  the 
need  of  the  great  army  of  women  bread- 
winners, a  creche,  or  day  nursery,  now  forms 
part  of  nearly  all  the  organisations  in  town 
described  as  missions.  The  only  private 
nursery  of  the  slums  is  frequently  a  hotbed 
for  seeds  of  the  various  ills  to  which  flesh  is 
heir,  and  calculated  to  produce  wastrels 
and  invertebrates  who  will  by  and  by 
become  a  charge  on  the  State. 

Somewhere  about  thirty  years  ago  two 
creches  for  infants  from  three  or  four  weeks 
old  upwards,  irrespective  of  creed  or  nation- 
ality, were  started,  the  one  in  the  East  and 
the  other  in  the  South-west  end  of  London. 
Mrs.  Hilton's,  in  Stepney  Causeway,  is  now 
known  as  the  Marie  Hilton  Creche,  and 
is  a  part  of  the  National  Association  for  the 
Reclamation  of  Destitute  Waif  Children, 
which  owes  its  existence  to  Dr.  Barnardo.  St 
Peter's  Creche,  Chelsea,  extends  its  influence 
far  beyond  its  own  parish,  and  is  double  its 
former  size.  The  East-End  women  toilers 
pay  id.  a  day  for  each  child.  This  fee 
covers  not  only  the  cost  to  them  of  food, 
but  also  of  attendance  if  the  poor  little 
applicants  are  suffering  from  complaints  that 
would  shut  them  out  of  an  ordinary  day 
nursery,  but  which  are  yet  not  serious  enough 
for  their  admission  to  a  hospital. 

One  baby  is  sometimes  pronounced  a 
"  handful."  What  is  to  be  said  of  sixty- 
eight,  all  between  the  ages  of  three  or  four 
weeks  and  five  years   old  ! 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  a  number  together 
are  more  easily  managed  than  one,"  the 
matron  of  St.  Peter's  Creche  answers  to 
this  remark  ;  "  for  they  amuse  each  other. 
But  sixty-eight  are  almost  too  many  for  this 
place.  Our  average  for  the  year  is  forty  a 
day,  or  between  11,000  and  12,000  attend- 
ances. The  elder  ones  go  to  school,  and 
come  in  for  meals." 

Let  us  take  a  peep  inside  a  creche  for  a 
moment.  In  the  first  room  the  younger  in- 
mates slumber  in  dainty  white  cots.  A  rosy- 
cheeked,  curly-headed  cherub  opens  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes  which  fill  with  tears  at  the  sight  of 
strangers.  He  is  lifted  up  and  comforted,  and 
exhibited  by  the  matron  as  a  "  beautiful 
child."  Near  to  him  a  blui.sh-white  little 
ghost  looks   about  him  with   an   expression 


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O 

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374 


LIVING    LONDON. 


A   RAGGED   SCHOOL    UNION    DINNER    (CAMBEKWELL). 


of  unnatural  wisdom.  Individuality  is  even 
more  marked  in  the  next  room.  A  winsome 
child  of  three  rises  to  her  social  duties,  and 
plays  the  hostess  gracefully.  She  runs  to 
meet  the  matron  and  embraces  her  round  the 
knees,  and  presents  her  hand  with  a  smile  of 
welcome  to  the  visitors.  Another  of  the 
same  age  is  bent  on  proving  that  the  newest 
rocking-hor.se  is  her  own.  When  other  argu- 
ments fail  to  convince  a  rival  claimant  for  a 
ride  she  prepares  to  exercise  the  tyranny  of 
tears.  The  favourite  toy  is  a  bone  of  conten- 
tion which  answers  to  the  Times  or  the  most 
comfortable  armchair  in  a  club  for  children  of 
a  larger  growth.  A  sturdy,  solid  two-year- 
old  stumps  about  in  supreme  indifference  to 
the  affairs  of  others,  and  one  of  his  fellows  is 
safely  in  pound — that  is,  within  a  large  crib 
without  leg.s,  in  which  five  children  can  take 
their  siesta  at  one  time. 

The  joys  of  "  dining  at  my  club  "  are  not 
wholly  at  an  end  when  the  old  age  of  child- 
hood draws  in  amongst  the  slums.  Poor 
children's  dinners  have  become  an  institution. 
They  were  first  organised  by  the  Ragged 
School    Union.      The    first   of    the    autumn 


season  of  1901,  held  under  its  auspices,  may 
serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  entertainment 
given  to  thousands  of  underfed  children 
throughout  the  winter. 

"  Camberwell  Ragged  School  and  Mission. 
Dinner  twelve  o'clock  on  Friday.  Bring  a 
spoon."  The  guests  honoured  with  this 
invitation  all  belong  to  a  neighbourhood 
described  by  a  local  tradesman  as  a  "  queer 
part,"  beset  with  danger  for  the  inexperienced 
explorer.  In  all  society  it  is  convenient  to 
classify  acquaintances  ;  on  this  occasion  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies  has  only  invited  the 
middle  class  on  the  visiting  list.  It  is  hard 
to  realise  that  there  is  a  set  much  lower  than 
the  seething  mass  at  the  doors  of  the  hall. 
The  same  amount  of  crushing  and  squeezing 
would  be  attended  with  shrieks  of  pain  or 
fright  in  a  grown-up  crowd  ;  but  the  hungry 
children  give  vent  to  one  cry  only,  that  is 
for  admission.  Even  after  the  tables  are  well 
furnished  with  250  guests,  there  is  no  turning 
away  of  eager  faces  or  lowering  of  out- 
stretched hands  Until  the  sturdy  caretaker 
disperses  the  crowd  and  shuts  the  door. 
When  the   last  juvenile  has   clambered   up- 


CARING    FOR    LONDON'S    CHILDREN. 


375 


stairs  on  all  fours  or  been  helped  up  by  an 
elder,  and  all  are  seated  at  the  long  tables, 
a  smile  of  expectancy  expands  the  rows  of 
faces.  A  slice  of  bread  and  a  basin  of  soup 
thickened  with  peas  and  barley  are  served  to 
each  one,  and  they  fall  to  with  zest.  In  this 
and  similar  halls  a  dinner  party,  towards 
which  the  guests  contribute  a  halfpenny  each, 
is  held  throughout  the  winter  once  or  some- 
times twice  a  week. 

London  is  said  to  be  the  maelstrom  which 
surely  draws  to  itself  the  wildest  of  modern 
nomads  from  the  provinces.  Ragged  school 
and  other  missions  are  a  means  of  saving  the 
underfed  children  from  being  dragged  into 
the  criminal  class.  It  is  not  always  an 
unmixed  evil  when  the  young  Ishmaels  of 
society  are  cast  off  by  their  own  people  or 
cut  themselves  adrift.     Tennyson  asks : — 

Is  it  well  that,  while  we  range  with 

Science  glorying  in  the  time, 

City  children  soak  and  blacken 

Soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 

The  street  arabs  need  not  be  left  to  sink 
in  the  mire.  The  blackness  of  night  in  dark 
corners,  under  sheds  or  railway  arches,  is 
periodically  pierced  by  a  dazzling  beam.  It 
shoots  from  a  vigilant  eye,  none  other 
than  a  bull's-eye.  Scurry  like  the  flight  of 
frightened    rabbits   ensues,   but    one    urchin 


remains  in  the  firm  but  kindly  grasp  of  a 
policeman.  "  I  ain't  doing  nothing,"  cries 
the  wriggling  captive  ;  but  his  captor  knows 
what  he  is  about,  and  will  not  let  him  go. 
From  this  lump  of  city  slime  may  be  ex- 
tracted valuable  materials.  In  a  few  months 
the  cowed,  sullen  face  of  the  little  vaga- 
bond is  not  very  ea.sy  to  recognise  in  the 
glow  of  the  blacksmith's  forge.  Sparks  fly 
merrily  under  vigorous  blows  which  might 
descend  with  murderous  effect  from  a  Hooli- 
gan. The  trades  shops  in  Stepney  Causeway 
under  the  National  Waifs  Association  are 
Dr.  Barnardo's  factory  for  transforming  young 
natives  of  No  Man's  Land  into  skilled 
artisans.  Between  40,000  and  50,000  boys 
and  girls,  on  the  whole,  have  now  been 
rescued,  trained,  and  placed  out  in  life  by 
the  Homes  of  which  the  trades  shops  form 
part.  Some  go  to  the  Colonies,  and  98  per 
cent,  of  the  emigrants  have  succeeded  in 
the  struggle  for  independence.  Miss  Annie 
Macpherson  was  the  pioneer  who  first  took 
advantage  of  the  discovery  that  Canada  had 
an  open  door  for  London's  crowded-out  child- 
ren.    More  than  7,000  have  been  helped  by 


NATIONAL   WAIFS     ASSOCIATION     (STEPNEY)  :    IN   THE   BLACKSMITHS     SHOP. 


376 


LIVING    LONDON. 


ALEXANDRA   ORPHANAGE    (HORNSEY    RISE)  :     GOING    TO    BED. 

her,  and  she  continues  to  receive  them  at  the 
Home  of  Industry,  29,  Bethnal  Green  Road, 
E.,  and  to  train  and  convey  them  to  her  Chil- 
dren's Home,  Stratford,  Ontario.  Many  sturdy 
farmers  and  farmers'  wives  are  living  witnesses 
of  how  well  rescued  waifs  can  be  used  to 
build  up  the  Empire  of  Greater  Britain. 

If  treasures  are  produced  from  unpromis- 
ing materials,  and  worthy  citizens  from  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  humanity  who.se 
antecedents  and  early  as.sociations  are 
generally  sad,  bad,  or  criminal,  what  may 
not  be  expected  from  those  homes  of 
innocence  which  abound  for  little  children 
who  are  chiefly  the  legacies  of  deserving 
but  unsuccessful  parents  ? 

When  in  1758  a  body  of  philanthropic 
gentlemen  met  at  the  George  Inn,  Iron- 
monger Lane,  Cheapside,  to  open  a  home 
for  twenty  fatherless  boys  they  set  a 
snowball  rolling.  It  grew  into  the  Orphan 
Working  School,  which  has  educated  more 
than  5,CKX)  children,  and  has  now  360  in 
its  senior  school  at  Maitland  Park,  and 
124   in  the  Alexandra  Orphanage,  Hornsey 


Rise,  where  boys  and 
girls  enter  from  baby- 
hood, and  remain  until 
nine  years  of  age.  For 
half  a  century  Queen 
Victoria  was  a  patron 
and  friend. 

Family  life  is  the  ideal 
set  up  by  the  managers 
of  the  Stockwell  Orphan- 
age, founded  by  the  late 
Mr.  C.   H.  Spurgeon  for 
500    boys    and    girls ;    in 
the   Brixton   Orphanage, 
founded  by  the  late  Mrs. 
Montague,     for     300 
girls  ;  and  in  Miss  Shar- 
man's      Home,     Austral 
Street,  Southwark,  where 
a    large    family    of    333, 
ranging   in    age    from    a 
few  weeks   to  seventeen 
years,  are  under  her  care. 
To  each  elder  girl  within 
her   gates   is    assigned    a 
baby    sister,   and    in    the 
playroom   every  one  has 
her  own  locker  with  her 
own  pet  toys  and  treasures.     Ties  of  affection 
hold   firm    in    spite  of  inevitable    dispersion. 
The  sewing  class    has    a    story    to  tell,  with 
a  pleasant  flavour  of  romance,  of  unbroken 
attachment     and    of    success    in    after    life, 
for   some    of    the    garments,    worthy    of    an 
exhibition    of  needlework,  form  part   of  the 
trousseau    of    a    former    inmate,    now    living 
in  New  York. 

Not  a  few  orphans,  indeed,  become  the 
benefactors  of  their  successors.  The  fine 
organ  in  the  Memorial  Hall  of  Stockwell 
Orphanage  was  presented  by  one  of  the 
ex-pupils  who  have  used  their  training  well, 
and  the  foundation  -  stones  of  the  newest 
part  cry  out  and  tell  with  gladness  of  gifts 
of  honest  gratitude.  For  example,  there  is  a 
record  of  how  "  Bray's  bricks "  were  built 
in.  Little  Bray  was  dying  in  the  Home, 
and  he  put  all  his  savings,  amounting  to 
4s.  6d.,  into  the  hands  of  the  founder  as  a 
contribution  towards  the  houses  for  girls 
which  were  added  in  1882.  Now,  whilst  250 
boys  lead  a  sort  of  college  life,  250  girls, 
under   matrons   in   separate   homes,  practise 


CARING    FOR    LONDON'S    CHILDREN. 


377 


the  domestic  accomplishments  intended  to 
make  them  good  servants  or  good  house- 
wives. In  the  model  laundry  and  in  their 
kitchens  and  workshops  they  cultivate  the 
art  of  self-dependence.  This  is  a  principle 
commended  to  the  boys  and  girls  alike. 

What  became  of  orphans  and  waifs  of 
humanity  before  a  modern  St.  Christopher 
attempted  to  lift  them  above  the  waves  of 
this  troublesome  world  ?  Of  those  who 
grew  up  the  gallows  greedily  seized  upon 
thousands,  gaol  fever  devoured  even  more, 
and  shiploads  were  carried  abroad  to  trans- 
form an  earthly  paradise  like  Botany  Bay 
into  a  hell.  Even  yet  the  great  Reaper  is 
more  active  than  any  philanthropist  in  carry- 
ing away  infants  from  soul-destroying  con- 
ditions. From  such  closely-packed  quarters 
as  the  parish  of  St.  George-the-Martyr  He 
claims  189  in  every  1,000.  Those  who  con- 
tend with  Death  and  Crime  for  the  crowded- 
out  children  whom  nobody  cares  to  own 
generally  take  them  into  open  fields  and 
meadows,  where  the  pure  air  is  as  the  very 
breath  of  life  to  the  feeble  little  frames.  One 
institution  after  another  moves  farther  and 
farther  from  the  centre  of  life's  hurly-burly. 
If  the  scope  of  this  work  allowed  mention 
of  the  benevolent  besoms  that  sweep  the 
street  tribes  out  of  town,  the  Babies'  Castle, 
Hawkhurst,  founded  by  Dr.  Barnardo  when 
his  old   Tinies'    House,   Bow   Church,    over- 


flowed, the  Princess  Mary's  Village  Homes 
at  Addlestone,  and  the  Church  of  England 
Association  for  Befriending  Waifs  and  Strays 
would  have  a  prominent  place.  But  the 
modern  crusade  to  deliver  childhood  from 
distress  is  so  extensive  that  even  an  attempt 
to  produce  snapshots  of  sample  institutions, 
fostered  by  voluntary  charity,  actually  in 
London  must  be  of  necessity  imperfect.  It 
is  impossible  to  follow  the  great  flock  of 
Mother  Carey's  chickens  that  wing  their 
flight  from  the  Warspite,  the  training  ship 
of  the  Marine  Society,  and  from  the  Arethusa 
and  the  Chichester,  under  the  National  Re- 
fuges for  Homeless  and  Destitute  Children. 
To  supply  our  ships  with  smart  sailors 
made  out  of  poor  boys  of  good  character 
is  patriotic  as  well  as  benevolent. 

What  is  the  use  of  this  expenditure  of 
time,  money,  and  labour.'  When  a  utilitarian 
community  thus  inquired  what  was  the  use 
of  Franklin's  discovery  of  the  identity  of 
lightning  with  electricity,  the  philosopher 
retorted,  "  Of  what  use  is  a  child  ?  He  may 
become  a  man."  All  the  possibilities  of 
manhood  are  bound  up  in  the  little  bundles 
that  contain  a  spark  of  human  life.  They 
must  not  be  lost  ;  for  the  present  generation 
is  bound  to  hand  on  the  heritage  of  its  fore- 
fathers to  posterity,  not  only  as  complete  as 
when  it  received  it,  but  with  interest 
added  to  principal. 


STOCKWELL    ORPHANAGE  :    THE    LAUNDRY. 


48 


378 


A  ouiET  ROW  :    chp;apside. 


KERBSTONE     LONDON, 


By  GEORGE  R   SIMS. 


N 


GROUNDSEL. 


OT  to  be  confused 
in  any  way  with 
Costerland  is 
Kerbstone  London. 
The  Hne  of  demarcation 
is  broad.  The  coster- 
monger  wheels  his 
barrow  or  sets  his  stall 
down  to  the  kerb  in 
certain  districts  on 
certain  nights,  but  the 
kerbstone  merchant 
earns  his  living  just 
where  the  pavement 
joins  the  roadway  all 
the  six  days  of  the 
week,  and  ipay  in  certain  localities  be  found 
there  even  on  the  seventh. 

You  want  no  guide  to  show  you  where  to 
find  this  characteristic  feature  of  London  life. 
You  have  but  to  take  your  walks  abroad 
through  the  great  Metropolis,  north  or  south 
or  east  or  west,  and  there  you  will  find 
the  kerbstone  merchant.  You  will  need  no 
introduction.  The  London  "  Camelot  "  will 
introduce  himself.  He  will  offer  you  his 
goods  with  the  aplomb  of  the  auctioneer  or 
the  whine  of  the  mendicant,  he  will  sell  you 
the  latest  Parisian  clockwork  toy  for  eighteen- 
pence,  or  a  boot-lace  for  a  halfpenny.  The 
newspaper  hawker  is  not  so  common  a 
kerbstone   tradesman   as  he  used   to   be,  for 


he  has  taken  of  late  years  to  advantageous 
corners  and  to  places  against  which  he 
can  lean  his  back ;  but  still  in  many  thorough- 
fares he  plants  one  foot  on  the  kerb  and 
displays  his  contents  bill  after  the  manner 
of  an  apron,  or  lays  it  down  in  the  gutter 
and  puts  stones  upon  it,  or  nails  it  to  the 
wood-paving,  renewing  it  from  time  to 
time  as  the  'bus  and  cab  wheels  stain  and 
obliterate  the  battles,  the  murders,  and  the 
sudden  deaths. 

But    kerbstone    character    varies     largely, 
not    only    according     to     the     locality,    but 
according  to   the 
day.     On   Satur- 
day    night     the 
kerb    is    a    great 
market.      In    be- 
tween the  coster- 
mongers'    stalls 
allowed  in  certain 
thoroughfares  on 
poor  man's  mar- 
ket     day,     men, 
women,     and 
child  ren    post 
themselves, 
and     cry 
their    wares 
aloud. 

There     is 
an    element  clockwork  toys. 


KERBSTONE    LONDON. 


379 


of  the  fair  in  the  east  and  in  the  south  of 
London,  for  the  weighing  chair,  the  shooting 
gallery,  and  the  try-your-strength  machine 
are  to  be  found  by  the  pavement's  edge- 
These  things  are,  of  course,  only  possible 
where  the  space  in  front  of  the  shops  is 
broad,  and  the  traffic  principally  pedestrian. 
But  there  are  kerbstone  merchants  who  take 
their  stand  wherever  a  street  market  is  estab- 
lished. Among  them  you  will  generally  find 
the  man  or  woman  with  a  tray  of  shirt-studs, 
two  a  penny ;  the  comic  song  vendor  ;  the 
man  with  cheap  purses  and  brooches ;  the 
man  who  has  a  preparation  for  the  erasure 
of  grease  stains  and  experiments  on  the  caps 
of  the  company ;  the  man  with  the  toy  micro- 
scopes — "  all  the  wonders  of  Nature  for  a 
penny";  the  doll  seller;  the  man  with  egg- 
pipes — contrivances  looking  like  pipes  from 
which,  when  blown  through,  a  paper  rooster 
appears ;  the  girl  with  bunches  of  flowers  ; 
the  man  with  fresh  roses  which  he  has  just 
washed  at  a  neighbouring  tap  ;  the  woman 
with  boot-laces  or  camjAor ;  the  seller  of 
needles  ;  the  blind  musician  ;  the  groundsel 
seller ;  and  the  man  with  walking  sticks. 

And  there  are  specialities  of  certain  neigh- 
bourhoods. In  one  you  find  barrows  of  old 
books  ;  in  another  barrows  of  old  boots.  In 
High  Street,  Marylebone,  there  is  a  small 
boy  who  sells  home-made  crumpets  on  the 
kerb.  In  Islington  there  was  until  lately  an 
old  gentleman  who  appeared  regularly  at  the 
edge  of  the  kerb  on   Saturday    nights,  with 


TRYING    HIS    SKILL. 


"  PAPER  !  " 

an  elaborate  church  lighted  inside  by  two 
tallow  candles  which  throw  the  stained-glass 
windows  into  elegant  relief  In  the  White- 
chapel  Road  there  is  a  kerbstone  trade  in 
hot  peas.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Charing 
Cross  you  can  buy  gauffres  at  the  kerb 
cooked  "  while  you  wait ; "  and  in  Hoxton 
and  Whitechapel  a  kerbstone  delicacy  largely 
patronised  is  "  eel  jelly." 

The  Saturday  night  kerbstone  trade  in 
"  market "  neighbourhoods  is  a  sharp  con- 
trast to  the  ordinary  kerbstone  trade  in  the 
West-End  thoroughfares  and  in  the  City. 
Mingle  for  a  moment  with  the  jostling  crowd, 
mostly  on  marketing  intent.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  pushing,  but  it  is 
generally  civil  and  good  humoured. 
The  coster  barrows  and  stalls  are 
doing  a  lively  trade.  The  costers 
look  fairly  well  off,  and  are  business- 
like and  jovial.  At  one  of  the 
bigger  fruit  stalls  the  proprietor  is 
smoking  a  cigar  and  watching  his 
assistants.  The  butcher's  stall  has 
a  placard  which  informs  you  that 
it  has  stood  in  the  same  spot  for 
thirty  years.  The  proprietor  has 
a  gold  pin  in  his  scarf  The  stout 
matronly  woman  in  an  old  apron 
and  a  young  hat,  who  is  doing  a 
roaring  trade  in  fish,  has  a  big  gold 
ring  in  addition  to  the  wedding-ring 
and  the  keeper. 


38o 


LIVIiNG    LOxNDON. 


But  these  people  are 
the  aristocracy  of  the  kerb, 
the  people  who  do  a 
steady  business  and  make 
money.  Some  of  them 
have  stalls  in  half  a  dozen 
neighbourhoods  on  the 
Saturday  night.  The 
people  to  watch  if  you 
want  to  dive  beneath  the 
crust  of  the  kerb  com- 
merce are  the  men  and 
women  who  ha\e  no  stalls, 
who  simply  stand  with  a 
small  stock-in-trade  on  a 
tray  or  in  a  basket — 
sometimes  in  their  hand 
— and  endeavour  to  earn 
a  few  pence.  Very  poor  and  miserable 
they  look  as  a  rule  ;  their  faces  are  anxious, 
their   voices    are    weak.     You   may   watch 


in  rags,  and  thinly- 
clad, emaciated  women. 
Their  attitude  is  statu- 
esque. They  do  not 
even  hold  their  goods 
out  boldly  to  attract 
attention.  There  is  a 
pitiful,  appealing  look 


BLIND   MUSICIAN. 

some  of  them  for  hours  and  not  see  them 
take  a  farthing.  But  on  their  takings  de- 
pends their  bed  that  night.  To  many  of 
the  poorer  kerbstone  hawkers  the  night's 
receipts  decide  between  the  "  'appy  doss " 
on  a  doorstep  and  the  more  comfortable 
bed  of  a  common  lodging-house. 

Before  quitting  the  Saturday  night  "market" 
kerb,  note  the  contrast  between  the  silent 
hawker  and  the  patterer.  Here  and  there 
stand   melancholy   figures,   old    men    almost 


FRUIT. 

in    their   eyes,    but    their 
lips  are  dumb. 

Close  by  them,  some- 
times on  either  side  of 
them,  are  the  patterers  : 
men  loud  of  voice  who 
talk  incessantly,  who 
shout,  make  speeches, 
crack  jokes  and  bang 
barrows  or  stands,  until 
the  crowd  collects  round 
them.  Many  of  them 
have  not  only  the  gift  of 
the  gab,  but  a  rough  wit 
of  their  own.  As  a  rule, 
the  wittiest  kerbstone  merchants  are  the  Jews. 
They  vary  their  dialogue,  and  suit  it  to  the 
occasion  and  the  customer.  In  the  White- 
chapel  Road  there  are  kerbstone  auctioneers, 
knockers-down  of  old  clothes  and  patched-up 
umbrellas,  who  will  patter  the  whole  night 
long  and  always  keep  their  audience  laughing. 
Their  business  formula  is,  however,  always 
the  same.  They  ask  far  more  than  they 
intend  to  take,  and  reduce  the  price  rapidly, 
say,   from    half-a-crown    to   si.xpence.      You 


KERBSTONE    LONDON. 


381 


always  know  the  final,  because  the  auctioneer 
slaps  the  article  and  exclaims,  "  I  ask  no 
more — I  take  no  less."  That  is  the  ultima- 
tum. If  the  article  is  not  bought  after  that 
it  is  put  aside,  and  another  one  is  picked 
up  and  subjected  to  the  same  process. 

Along  the  kerb  in  the  weekday  the  trade  is 
of  quite  a  different  character.  In  the  west 
in  the  daytime  it  consists  largely  of  toys  for 
children.  Some  of  these  toys  are  of  an 
elaborate  character  and  move  by  clockwork. 
You  may  walk  along  Oxford  Street  and  see 
a  hansom  cab  on  the  pavement  going  round 
and  round  in  a  circle,  a  black  poodle  dog 
which  hops  like  a  frog  and  barks,  a  man 
mowing  imaginary  grass,  a  woman  drawing 
water  from  a  well,  a  couple  of  pugilists 
engaged  in  a  lively  boxing  match,  an 
elephant  walking  down  an  inclined  plane, 
a  pair  of  fluttering  butterflies,  or  a  small 
Blondin  performing  on  the  tight-rope. 

These  ingenious  toys  vary  in  price.  You 
can  pay  eighteenpence  for  them  or  consider- 
ably less.  You  can  buy  toy  musical  in- 
struments, bagpipes,  bird  calls,  Jews'  harps, 
etc.,  for  a  penny.  The  sellers  are  mostly 
well-dressed  men,  smart  young  fellows 
who  know  their  business,  and  do  it 
quickly  and  dexterously.  When  the  toy 
is  a  novelty  it  attracts  the  grown-up 
passers-by,  and  amuses  them  quite  as 
much  as  it  does  the  children — probably 
more.  At  the  West-End  you  meet  the 
kerbstone    dog-seller — the  man   leadincf    a 


dog  as  a  specimen  of  the  stock  at  home — 
the  man  with  a  couple  of  tiny  puppies,  which 
he  keeps  in  his  pocket  and  puts  down 
occasionally  when  he  sees  a  likely  customer. 
Ladies  frequently  buy  these  dogs  under  the 
impression  that  they  are  full  grown,  and  will 
always  remain  "  tiny  mites  ;  "  it  is  needless 
to  say  their  anticipations  are  not  realised. 
The  favourite  kerbstone  dog  is  the  poodle, 
and  the  vendor  is  generally  a  foreigner. 

If  you  take  a  walk  through  the  town,  say, 
along  Oxford  Street  and  into  the  Strand, 
along  the  Strand  to  Ludgate  Hill,  from 
Ludgate  Hill  along  Cheapside,  and  so  into 
the  City,  you  will  be  struck  by  the  fact  that 
quite  a 
number  of 
the  kerb- 
stone mer- 
chants sell 
the  same 
article. 
The  article 


PURSES,  BROOCHES,  ETC. 


I.  PATTERER.   II.  OLD  CLOTHES. 

that  attracted  your  attention 
in  Oxford  Street  you  will 
find  being  sold  along  Cheap- 
side  ;  a  cheap  novelty — the 
latest  "  catchpenny "  on  the 
market — will  be  on  sale  on 
the  same  day  in  every  tho- 
roughfare of  London.  And 
all  the  hawkers  will  cry  it  in 
the  same  words.  The  leaden 
water     squirts,     which     with 


382 


LIVING    LONDON. 


"  scratch-backs  "  were 
at  one  time  allowed 
to  be  sold  on  the  kerb 
during  periods  of 
popular  festivity,  were 
known  for  years  in 
hawkerese  as  "  Get 
)-our  own  back."  Then 
suddenly,  in  a  night, 
the  name  was  changed. 
From  end  to  end  of 
the  world's  greatest 
capital  the  vendors 
yelled  them  as  "  All 
the  jolly  fun."  These 
squirts  are  still  occa- 
sionally sold  on  the 
street  in  spite  of  the 
police  prohibition,  but 

a  gentler  age  has  substituted  for  Bank 
Holidays  and  national  rejoicings  the  con- 
fetti of  the  Continent.  On  big  nights  of 
popular  rejoicing  some  of  the  principal 
thoroughfares  of  London  are  strewn  from 
end  to  end  with  bits  of  coloured  paper. 

On  these  nights  the 
kerbstone  merchant 
does  a  roaring  trade  in 
the  tissue  paper  that 
you  light  and  fling  in 
the  air,  in  memorial 
buttons,  in  rosettes  and 
streamers,  and,  alas ! 
also  in  the  old-fashioned 
bladder  attached  to  a 
stick,  which  enables  the 
London  larrikin  to 
bang  away  on  the  hat 
and  shoulders  of  the 
peaceable  passer-by  to 
his  heart's  content. 
BAGi'iPKS.  The  kerb  trade  alters 

with  the  .seasons.  In 
winter,  except  at  Christmas,  particularly  in 
the  City,  it  is  dull,  and  there  is  little  variety  ; 
it  is  during  the  summer  and  autumn  that  the 
great  kerbstone  trade  is  done.  One  might 
in  a  walk  of  a  couple  of  miles  collect  enough 
kerbstone  curitjsities  to  fit  up  a  parlour 
museum.  You  might  buy  a  summer  hat  for 
twopence,  a  fan  f<jr  a  penny,  a  Japanese 
parasol  for  any  price  the  dealer  thinks  he  can 
palaver  you  into  parting  with,  a  penny  map 


^H 

Wit    ?  , 

UMBRELLAS. 


of  London,  a  penny 
guide  to  London,  and 
a  penny  history  of 
England  from  William 
the  Conqueror  to  Ed- 
ward VII.  You  can 
obtain  iced  drinks  at  a 
penny  a  glass,  sherbet 
from  a  can  over  which 
is  spread  a  rough 
towel  with  an  orna- 
mental border  ;  ices 
are  offered  to  you  by 
s  w  a  r  t  h  y-s  k  i  n  n  e  d 
Swiss-Italians  at  every 
hundred  yards,  and 
the  coster  wheels  his 
fruit  barrow  along  the 
kerb  from  morn  till 
night.  For  the  kerb  hawker  with  the  barrow 
must  by  police  regulations  keep  on  the  move. 
Fruit  is  his  general  stock-in-trade  in  the 
summer.  Strawberries,  cherries,  and  goose- 
berries take  the  place  of  the  oranges,  apples, 
and  walnuts  of  the  colder  months.  The 
banana  stall  is  now  as  common  as  the  pine- 
apple stall  is  rare.  There  are  very  few 
barrows  along  the  West-End  and  City  kerbs 
that  are  not  either  fruit  or  flower  laden  in 
the  summer.  Occasionally  a  man  will  turn 
up  with  a  weird  barrow-load  of  small  tor- 
toises, and  explain  to  the  gaping  provincials 
that  they  are  good  things  for  the  garden, 
but  this  is  a  .sensation  of  the  kerb,  and  only 
to  be  seen  at  rare  intervals. 


WALNUTS. 


KERBSTONE    LONDON. 


383 


In  Cheapside  there  are  few  fruit  sellers. 
Here  the  great  public  want  seems  to  be 
boot-laces  and  collar-studs.  The  boot-lace 
merchant  and  the  women  who  stand  with 
the  little  cards  of  studs  are  only  one  remove 
from    mendicants.      Some    of    them    are    so 


In  the  City  proper,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Bank  and  the  Stock  Exchange,  the 
kerbstone  merchant  is  of  a  different  order. 
He  is  a  business  man  appealing  to  business 
men.  Therefore  he  has  something  to  sell, 
and  he  knows  how  to  sell  it.     The  City  men 


STUDS,  ETC. 


BOOKS. 


CAMPHOR. 


wretched-looking  that  your  hand  instinctively 
goes  into  your  pocket  to  give  them  a  copper. 
Some  of  the  dilapidated  objects  standing 
on  the  kerbstone  of  the  Metropolis  have 
strange  histories.  Among  them  you  find 
University  men  and  members  of  the  pro- 
fessions, men  bearing  names  famous  in  the 
land.  And  among  them  also  you  find  the 
broken-down  merchant,  the  ruined  tradesman, 
and  the  gentleman  who  has  had  reverses  of 
fortune.  It  is  to  this  they  have  drifted  as  the 
last  stand  against  the  workhouse.  They  are, 
of  course,  exceptions. 
The  boot-lace  and 
collar  -  stud  hawker 
is,  as  a  general  rule, 
of  the  broken-down 
labouring  class. 


are  good  patrons  of  the  kerb  "curiosity" 
merchant.  The  young  stockbroker  buys  an 
ingenious  toy  and  takes  it  back  to  the  office 
— to  amuse  himself  with.  The  staid  stock- 
broker and  the  grave  merchant  buy  their 
toys  and  take  them  home  for  the  amusement 
of  their  families.  Several  City  men  have 
preserved  the  penny  toys  hawked  in  the 
streets,  and  one  well-known  stockbroker  has 
quite  a  remarkable  collection  of  them. 

The  street  performer  rarely  appears  on  the 
kerb — the  middle  of 
the  roadway  is  more 
welcome    for   the 
"  pitch."        But    the 
singer    of    ballads — 
mournful   ballads  as 
a    rule— occasionally 
stands  with  one 
foot  upon  it  and 
makes      doleful 
melody.        The 


OLD   BOOTS. 


NEEDLES. 


384 


LIVING    LONDON. 


gentleman  with  the  musical  glasses — a  rare 
performance  nowadays — finds  his  way  to  the 
edge  of  the  pavement  occasionally  in  neigh- 
bourhoods where  the  factory  hands  spend 
half  their  dinner  hour  out  of  doors,  and  here 
the  harpist,  the  blind  fiddler,  the  boy  with  the 
penny  whistle,  and  the  long-haired  man  who 
sings  hymns  to  his  own  accompaniment  on 
the  harmonium  are  also  to  be  found — espe- 
cially on  Saturday  afternoons  when  the  work- 
girls  are  going  home.  For  on  Saturday  the 
London  work-girl  has  her  wages  with  her, 
and  it  is  rarely  that  she  does  not  dedicate  a 
copper  or  two  to  the  relief  of  the  kerbstone 
performers,  halt,  lame,  and  blind,  who  appeal 
to  her  charitable  little   heart. 

On  the  London  kerb,  then,  you  will  find  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  from  the  pros- 
perous trader  to  the  shivering,  half-starved 
mendicant  who  disgui.ses  his  mendicancy 
with  a  shirt-stud,  a  boot-lace,  or  the  singing  of 
a  doleful  ditty. 

Every  kerb  has  its  characteristics.  The 
kerb  life  of  the  Borough  has  nothing  in 
common  with  the  kerb  life  of  Hoxton,  and 
the  kerb  life  of  Notting  Hill  is  as  a  foreign 
land  compared  with  the  kerb  life  of  Islington. 
The  City  kerb  dealer  is  brisk,  alert,  and 
business-like  ;     the     kerb    hawker    of    Fleet 


Street  and  Ludgate  Hill  is,  as  a  rule,  cowed, 
depressed,  and  silent.  But  all  make  a  living 
of  one  sort  or  another.  They  come  day  after 
day  many  of  them  to  the  same  pitch,  and 
stand  through  winter's  cold  and  summer's 
heat,  through  drenching  rain  and  biting  blast, 
and  at  a  certain  hour  they  go.  Like  the 
Arabs  they  silently  steal  away.  Whither  ? 
Some  of  them  into  the  shadowland  of  the 
outcasts,  others  to  the  common  lodging 
houses,  where  they  cook  their  meal  at  the 
coke  fire  and  discuss  with  their  friends  the 
condition  of  trade  and  the  badness  of  the 
times  just  as  the  millionaire  and  the  financier 
will  discuss  it  at  their  West-End  clubs.  And 
on  the  morrow,  however  small  the  previous 
day's  takings  may  have  been,  they  will  drop 
into  their  old  places  on  the  London  kerbs 
again  and  wait  patiently  for  the  chance 
customers  by  whom  they  live.  They  have 
neither  luncheon  hour,  dinner  hour,  nor  time 
for  tea.  And  they  have  no  holidays.  They 
are  a  human  fringe  to  the  pavements  of 
London,  a  fringe  that  only  completely 
disappears  when  the  first  hour  of  a  new  day 
has  struck,  and  the  last  hope  of  a  copper  has 
departed.  The  police  who  guard  the  great 
City  by  night  want  neither  boot-laces  nor 
evening  papers. 


COMIC    SONGS.  FLOWERS,    ETC.  EGG-PIPES. 


Cassei-l  and  Company,  Limited,  La  Belle  Sauvagk,  Ludgate  Hill,  London,  E.G. 


SIMS,  G.R.                                DA 

684 
Living  London.                   .S59 

V. 

DATE                                             ISSUED   TO                               || 

SHIS,     G.R. 

Living  London. 

DA 
684 
.359 

V.2 


/